Killed in Cornwall (15 page)

The telephone rang just as he picked up his knife and fork. He had been thinking of Rose, it had to be her.

‘Hello, Barry, it’s Daphne. Look, I just thought I’d let you know the police have been around here asking questions and they seem satisfied that Rod’s in the clear. I know it could’ve waited until the morning but I’m so pleased. Rod is, too, of course, but he’s a bit down because he’s still afraid people’ll find out about the past. Anyway, we’re having a bit of a do on Saturday night. We’ve decided not to bury our heads in the sand any longer. If people do find out, then so be it.
It’s up to them to decide how they feel, not us. So will you come?’

‘I’d love to. Thank you.’

Daphne laughed. ‘Good. It’s daft, really, but we’ve invited neighbours we’ve hardly spoken to. We’ll know you better than we know anyone else.’

‘It’ll give me a chance to widen my circle of acquaintances, too.’ It had taken him many years but he was beginning to realise just how limited his life was. When he first met Rose he had hoped for different things. Yes, he still loved her, he always would, but he had to accept that the time for hoping was long gone. I shall certainly go, he decided as he sat down to his cooling food, and I shall go alone. He would order a taxi to take him there and ring for another when it was time to leave.

Jack Pearce looked at his face in the mirror in the bathroom and hoped that it was the light rather than the way he felt which gave his skin that greyish tinge.

I ought to phone her, he thought as he splashed cold water into his eyes. I ought to let her know she was right. But how will she feel when she realises we’ve had to speak to Samantha Jago
and Lucy Chandler; Lucy, who had already been through enough.

Jack pushed open the French doors which led to his secluded garden. The people upstairs were rarely at home and they could only overlook him if they happened to be standing in the window. As he had no inclination to sunbathe nude, or to sunbathe at all, it hardly mattered.

The air was full of the scent of lavender in which numerous bees flitted from stem to stem. The garden had been established long before he moved in and he had made no attempt to alter it. The summer flowering shrubs were now coming into their own and filled the narrow borders with colour.

He strolled around the perimeter, a glass of beer untouched in his hand. Jason Evans had been interviewed and charged even though his parents had miraculously appeared from somewhere bringing with them a solicitor.

I will tell her, he decided, it’s only fair. But deep down he was aware it was also an excuse to speak to her. She took a long time to answer.

‘Hello?’ Rose was as terse as he had been when she rang him.

‘Am I disturbing you?’

‘Yes. I was in the bath.’ She did not add that
the water was cold and she’d been about to get out.

‘We’ve charged Jason Evans,’ he told her without preamble hoping the news would make her more amiable.

‘Good heavens.’

‘You were right. He and one of his mates have been breaking and entering to make ends meet. They only took small, easily saleable objects, things they could carry without the need of transport. Neither of them has any previous form and it was pure luck they weren’t caught sooner.

‘You were right about the girl, Liz. Only she knew nothing about it. She was horrified. She’d innocently told Jason their plans for the day, although she didn’t know that Dave Fox would be on the scene in the morning and therefore assumed he was responsible.

‘The thing is, Rose, to give the boy his due, he refuses to implicate Lucy. The night she was raped he broke into a place nearby He claims they’d argued and she went off in a mood and it was only then he decided to do the job. My feeling is that he wanted to use her as his look-out and she refused and that’s why they argued.’

‘What’ll happen to her?’ She could probably
be charged as an accessory if she had known what Jason was up to and failed to report it.

‘I don’t know.’

‘Jack, can you just do nothing? I mean, surely she’s learnt her lesson after what happened to her that evening.’

Jack thought about it. There were some who would say it was poetic justice, if carried a little too far; the criminal becomes the victim of crime. But he was a police officer, if he turned a blind eye to one thing where would it lead in the end? ‘No, Rose, I can’t just do nothing. We’ll speak to her once more. If she denies it then we’ll accept what she says. You’ll just have to trust me.

‘Anyway, how’s Evelyn?’

‘I’m not sure, really. Dad says she’s very tired and each time I’ve rung she’s been resting. I’m going up next week to see for myself.’

‘If there’s anything I can do, such as drive you, you know where I am.’

‘Thanks, Jack. And thank you for letting me know about Jason.’

‘Are you sure you wouldn’t like a job with the Devon and Cornwall police? We might never have got Evans without the information you gave us.’

‘Information?’ Rose was indignant. ‘I bloody
well solved the case for you.’ During one of their telephone calls she had finally mentioned the expensive watch Lucy had said Jason had given her. As Rose had suspected, it turned out to be stolen.

‘Then I owe you a meal. Fancy a night out soon? Before you go away?’

‘I never say no to free food and drink.’

‘How about the Seafarer’s on Saturday night?’

‘Wonderful. You’re on.’

‘I’ll ring you to confirm a time.’

He didn’t mention Nichola Rolland, Rose thought after she’d hung up. And there was something I didn’t mention either, she realised as she pulled the damp towel closer to her body and went back up to the bathroom to rub almond scented moisturiser into her skin.

The Wednesday classes seemed to come around so quickly. Rose had decided that they would concentrate on charcoal tonight. She hoped to convey that in this medium fewer lines were more effective, and she had some excellent examples to illustrate that simplicity was the key to a good piece of work.

Without realising it she had sketched the head and shoulders of Nathan Brown on her notebook. Sticking the pencil behind her ear she decided she needed to talk to Doreen about him before she spoke to Jack. She knew now what it was about that library book that had disturbed her. I’ll pop over tomorrow evening,’ she said, talking aloud
as she often did when on her own. It would make no difference to Cyril who would be out watering the plants or searching for invisible weeds.

It was a dullish sort of day with a stiff breeze. The washing flapped on the line, the sheets as white as the clouds which were beginning to mass and cover the bay. She watered her own plants as there was no direct sun nor any sign of rain, then did some shopping in Newlyn. For some reason she was not in the mood to paint.

The weekend looks like being as busy as the week has been, she thought as she unlocked the gallery door. There was dinner with Jack on Saturday night to look forward to and a day at the furniture superstores on the outskirts of Plymouth with Barry on Sunday to follow. He had rung to finalise the arrangement. And soon I’ll see Mum again. Her father had agreed that Monday would be a suitable day to arrive. ‘She’ll have had just over a week to recover by then and she’s really looking forward to seeing you. I’ll put her on.’

On the two occasions upon which Rose had now spoken to Evelyn she had noticed how much weaker her voice had sounded.

‘I wish you’d all stop fussing,’ Evelyn had said pretending annoyance but touched by
their concern. Rose had passed on her friends’ messages. Now she wanted to judge for herself how well her mother really was.

‘Hi.’

Rose turned around. Joyce Jago stood behind her. She was smiling. ‘I’m glad I caught you early. I just wanted to tell you that Sam seems back to her old self now. She and Lucy have made it up, and I heard that the boy that caused the trouble between them has been arrested.’

‘Yes, I heard that, too.’

‘Did you?’ Joyce seemed surprised until she remembered that Rose was supposed to be seeing a detective inspector. ‘Anyway, a very nice female officer came to have a word with Sam. I thought that would bring the house down and set her off again but no, she sat down and told me all about it afterwards.’

Sam had lied for Lucy but even if she had suspected there was more to it than meeting Jason, Rose doubted she knew about his
short-lived
criminal career.

‘Anyway, that seems to be the end of it.’

‘Good. Can you give me a hand with the chairs?’

Thank you Jack, she thought later as she tried, mostly unsuccessfully, to get her point across to the class.

She walked home slowly, glancing now and then at the sky but it held no clues as to the following day’s weather. In West Cornwall it was a case of waking up and looking out of the window to see what the day would bring. There was a swell on the sea and the tang of salt and seaweed in the air. Rose breathed deeply, clearing her lungs after the stuffy gallery annexe. It was one of those old, high-ceilinged buildings which was draughty and cold in the winter and equally as uncomfortable in the summer. Only the gallery itself had been modernised, the paintings hung amidst glass and chrome.

The shrill voices of the few remaining children in the playground carried through the air, as did the sound of gulls perched on the railings hoping for scraps of food from people sitting in the shelters. Rose leant on the railings, her canvas bag at her feet. The tide was ebbing, running back over the row of flat boulders that edged the banks of pebbles. Few waders would come to feed now, they had migrated for the summer. An occasional turnstone might be seen, even a ringed plover, hardly discernable amongst the stones but there was no chance of that tonight as there were people on the beach and a dog barking madly as it chased the gulls. On the horizon the sea was the
colour of bruising before it began to fade; nearer the shore it was lighter, bluer but the whole was capped with white horses. The wind whipped through her linen jacket and tugged at her hair, carrying with it a strong smell of brine. A trawler was coming home, its beams still spread. Not Trevor, he had only sailed the day before, but someone’s husband or son returning safely. This time. Nichola Rolland had not returned home safely and Lucy Chandler had escaped with her life. Which reminded Rose of her intention to speak to Doreen Clarke in the morning.

Nathan Brown did not feel like watching the video again. Perhaps it was because he had finally found employment, outdoor work which he enjoyed, had always enjoyed until his mother’s illness had taken it away from him, just as she, when fit, had taken every other pleasure away from him. He was starting to realise just how much he had disliked her.

I know I’m not an educated man, he thought as he pottered around outside the house dead-heading the ugly hydrangeas which had flowered earlier than usual. His mother had liked them and seemed unconcerned that in the winter there was nothing to see other than their
dead-looking
spiky twigs. Tomorrow he would cut the sloping lawn. It gave him backache but needed to be done; in the evening if the day was hot. Soon he would be fit again, fit but not worn out as he had been when he was running constant errands for his mother. Soon he would spend his days on the farm come rain or shine and his hands would be encrusted with dirt and he wouldn’t have to listen to that sharp voice admonishing him not to come to the table until his nails were clean. As if they ever could be when you worked on a farm.

He went through the house carrying the desiccated flower heads and threw them in the bin outside the back door. The house had not been redecorated for as long as he could remember but he had no intention of doing anything about it. What he did intend doing was to sell it, just as it was. Whoever bought it would have their own ideas about paper and paint, and then he would buy somewhere smaller, somewhere without a back-breaking slope of a garden, somewhere where he could grow pretty things and take a woman home without the ghost of his mother watching.

Knowing he must eat but not feeling hungry, he went back to the dismal kitchen and took out a loaf of bread. Something warm hit his hand as
he drew the serrated knife through the crust. It was a teardrop. Nathan was shocked to find he was crying. He knew that no woman would want him because he had no idea at all how to talk to them. He stuffed his knuckles in his mouth to stop the sound of his sobbing from echoing around his drab surroundings.

Rose was at Nancherrow Valley. She had driven to St Just then on to Cape Cornwall searching for somewhere suitable to work. She was making a brief return to landscapes in watercolours, mainly to keep her hand in. Here the scenery was far different from the soft, sandy beaches and picturesque streets of St Ives, only a few miles distant. Here was true ruggedness: piles of ancient stones balanced precariously, nothing but sloping scrubland, no trees, no birdsong, and all around the remains of tin mines which had fallen into decay. Even on a warm summer day it was bleak, almost eerie. Rose had finally found a scene which would work. She got out of the car and locked it and walked a little way into the valley. To her right were craggy cliffs, to her left a steep slope covered now with verdant growth, as was the single stack of a disused mine. The low ruins of brickwork were vaguely discernable
beneath layers of growth of a weed she could not identify. Between the two slopes a triangle of sea was visible, glittering beneath a haze. Water and sky blended at the horizon. The view provided a perfect composition. She laid out her ground-sheet, got out her gear and her flask and set to work, being careful to use smaller strokes and a more gentle approach than was necessary with oils.

It was after six by the time she reached Doreen’s bungalow. The time had passed quickly. Although she had worn her battered hat Rose hoped she hadn’t overdone the sun. Her nose, forearms and shins tingled with the heat.

‘You’m all red, maid,’ Doreen said when she saw Rose standing outside the kitchen door. ‘Come in and have a cold drink.’

Rose smiled. Concern was Doreen’s first reaction. She never turned anyone away who just happened to arrive unexpectedly. Doreen opened the fridge and got out some fresh orange juice. ‘Is this all right?’

‘Fine.’

Above a cotton print dress, tightly belted between generous bosom and ample stomach, Doreen’s face was pale, but she worked so hard she rarely saw the sun. ‘It’s darts tonight so you
won’t see Cyril ’less you stay late. “I won’t be long,” ’ee says to me every Thursday but he never gets in until closing time. You can tell when he’s lost, he never says a word, it’s worse in the winter when they play in the league, you’d think the end of the world had come. Anyway, what brings you over this way?’

‘I was almost passing. I was out at Nacherrow and came back via St Ives. I saw this in Penzance the other day and thought you might like it.’ Rose handed her a small plastic bag.

‘Oh, it’s ’ansome, Rose. Thank you so much.’ Doreen held up the flimsy scarf with tiny pearls embroidered around the hems. ‘There was no need for it, I’m always glad to see you.’

Rose knew that but she and Cyril kept her supplied with fruit and vegetables, flowers and cakes. She had nothing to offer in return except the occasional small gift or some tobacco for Cyril.

‘Now you’ve drunk the orange, how about a glass of stout? I always have a couple on Cyril’s night out. It’s only fair, that’s what I say.’

‘Just the one, Doreen, I’ve got the car.’ Rose knew that the gift had embarrassed her even though it also gave her pleasure.

‘How’s Nathan?’

‘He’s doing fine. Better than I expected.’ She flipped the top off two bottles of dark beer and handed Rose a thick ridged glass. ‘He’s starting work next Monday, which’ll do ’im good. No man should be without a job. And he’s talking of selling up. I think the solicitor put that idea in his head. Nathan doesn’t get too many of his own. Besides, that place is so gloomy.’

‘Doreen, do you remember the other night when I saw you both in Newlyn?’

‘Course I do. I’m not senile.’

‘Well, did Nathan say anything?’

‘He said quite a bit.’

‘About Lucy Chandler, I mean. Do you think he knows her?’

‘I doubt it. Why?’

Rose shrugged and brushed back a few tendrils which had strayed from the clip which held her hair at the nape of her neck. ‘The way he looked at her I thought he recognised her.’

‘Well he never said anything to me if he did. You can have a cigarette if you like. After Cyril’s pipe anything’s acceptable.’

Rose reached into her bag and lit up. Doreen fetched a tin ashtray which had the name of a lager written around its rim. ‘Who was the maid? Lucy Chandler, you said. I don’t know the name.’

‘She’s the daughter of someone I know.’ Rose left it at that.

‘Just like poor Nichola Rolland. I can’t understand why finding the man that did that to her is taking so long.’

Rose took a long swallow of her drink, enjoying its bitterness. Doreen didn’t expect a response to her statement.

‘All I can say is that they don’t seem to know what they’re about at the moment. I mean, fancy arresting Dave Fox of all people. I saw young Eva the other day and she told me about it. At least that’s in the past. Oh, and she’s got herself a job, too. I’m pleased for ’un. It means she’ll have no cause to leave and you can see that Dave dotes on ’er.’

‘I think she does on him.’

‘You’re probably right. Now, have you had your supper yet or would you like a bite with me? Cyril’ll buy ’isself a pasty down the pub.’

‘No, I’m fine thanks, Doreen. I’d better be off.’ She drained her glass and stood, stretching for a second as she felt the stiffness of having sat working for so long.

She was about to unlock the car when she turned to her left to see where the sound of a lawn-mower was coming from. Nathan Brown
stood high up in his garden cutting the lawn. It would be rude not to say hello. Rose crossed the road and walked towards him; the air was scented with freshly cut grass.

Nathan looked up and shielded his eyes from the sun which was lower in the sky than when he had begun. ‘Mrs Trevelyan,’ he said gruffly.

‘How are you, Nathan? Doreen told me you’d got a job. I’m very pleased for you.’

He nodded and fiddled with the handle of the mower.

‘And she also said you might be moving.’

‘I might.’ His tone implied it was none of her business. She took a chance and asked directly, ‘I wondered if you knew the girl who was with me the other night. Lucy Chandler.’

‘The name means nothing to me.’

He’s lying, Rose thought, even though Doreen had once told her she believed him to be incapable of an untruth. Unless, she decided, unless I’m right and he doesn’t know her name. It had never appeared in the press. ‘Are you sure?’ Even as she spoke she could hear Jack’s voice telling her to leave things alone.

‘Look, I’m not standing out here for all the world to hear our conversation. I think you’d better come inside, Mrs Trevelyan.’

She was startled, the invitation was totally unexpected. She went up the steep steps and followed him into the house. After the brightness of the sun it was difficult to focus immediately and when she did she saw what a gloomy place it was. The lower part of the hall walls consisted of brown painted panels which had probably been there since the house was built. Above it was maroon flocked paper. It would not take much imagination to believe the lights were fuelled by gas.

Nathan flung open the door to his right. Here, too, all was brown; the velveteen suite, the curtains and the carpet which was relieved by bold gold swirls. There was an empty fireplace with traces of soot and some heavy furniture. The only modern thing was a television set with a video recorder shelved below it.