Malice in Cornwall (22 page)

“Convenient,” Butts muttered.

“On the other hand,” Black went on, “he might be telling the truth.”

Powell smiled dryly. “Thank you for clarifying that.”

Butts cleared his throat. “I questioned him about the conversation he had with you yesterday morning, sir. He was a bit edgy after I told him you'd had an accident at the mine. He said he'd been upset when he talked to you, but wouldn't say much more. I asked him if he saw anybody else pass by on the road, but he claims he left a short time later to work at another location. However, there doesn't seem to be anyone who can corroborate his whereabouts.”

An ominous rumble from Sergeant Black.

“That's about all we could get out of him,” Butts concluded, “so we took him home and planted the thought that we might want to talk to him again.”

Powell looked at Butts. “What do your instincts tell you?”

Butts considered the question for a moment. “I don't think we can rule him out at this point.”

“Bill?”

“I agree with Mr. Butts,” Black said diplomatically. “Porter just strikes me as being too much of a Nervous Nellie.”

Powell nodded. “By the way, how did Mrs. Porter react when you showed up to pick up her husband?”

“She wasn't there. Porter claims she went to Redruth yesterday to do some shopping and visit a friend. She's due back tomorrow, apparently.”

“A friend,” Powell said doubtfully.

“I don't think Mr. Porter believed her, either.”

“The plot thickens.”

“Sir?”

“You chaps had better wander over to the Head and have that chat with Tony Rowlands. I'll stay here and sit on my arse. You can fill me in over dinner.”

Several minutes later, as Powell was attempting to settle himself in bed with the latest issue of
Trout and Salmon
magazine, Black charged in, puffing like a Cape buffalo.

“It's Rowlands, sir. He's disappeared!”

The three policemen, working on their second bottles of ale, courtesy of Mrs. Polfrock, sat in the Residents' Lounge of the Wrecker's Rest discussing the implications of this latest turn of events. (Powell had his leg propped up on a large cushion, having grudgingly admitted that perhaps he
had
been overdoing it a bit.) According to Jenny Thompson, who was understandably upset, Rowlands had departed unannounced the previous evening and had yet to return. Under questioning she admitted stoically that it wasn't the first time something like this had happened. She let on that she knew about
Linda Porter, but she refused to talk about it other than to clearly indicate her disgust with Rowlands in particular, and with men in general.

“Bloody peculiar, I'd say.” Butts observed. “I've already put the word out on him, by the way.”

“I don't think there's much doubt about it at this point,” Black agreed. “Someone pushes Mr. Powell down a mine shaft and then Rowlands disappears.”

“Perhaps he's shopping in Redruth with a friend,” Powell said casually.

Butts looked solemn. “Well, this is it.”

After spending a restless night dreaming that someone was trying to saw his right leg off, Powell awoke to the news that Rowlands had been picked up in London and was being held in custody for questioning. At a hurriedly convened breakfast conference, it was agreed that Powell would return to London immediately to interview Rowlands, while Black stayed behind for the time being to await further developments.

Arrangements having been made, Powell was hobbling up to his room to pack when he met Jane Goode coming down the stairs. He had been dreading this moment, but he supposed it was as good a time as any.

She looked at him sternly. “You really should stay off that leg, you know.”

“Jane, there's been a break in the case. I have to return to London today, and I wanted to say goodbye … I mean, well, to wish you luck with your book—”

“Nonsense! I'll come with you and you can tell me all about it. I was planning on leaving tomorrow, myself, but what the hell? We can keep each other company.”

Powell grinned like a rustic on market day. “Great! The InterCity leaves Redruth at ten-oh-nine, and we should be there at least fifteen minutes early—can you be ready in half an hour?”

A look of panic as she glanced at her watch. “Good Lord!” She dashed back up the stairs.

A half hour later, after a last minute conversation with Butts and a disconcertingly cordial goodbye from Mrs. Polfrock, Powell and Jane squeezed into the backseat of the car behind Sergeant Black.

“Ow! Get your hand off my knee!” Powell yelped.

Jane laughed unsympathetically. “Sorry.”

During an uneventful drive to Redruth, Powell brought Jane up to date, then Black dropped them off at the station.

“Thanks, Bill. I'll let you know.”

“Good luck, Mr. Powell. And goodbye, Ms. Goode. I'll keep my eye out for your new book.”

“Don't hold your breath. But you can still buy a copy of my first one,” she said hopefully.

Black grinned. “I already have. I picked up a copy in Truro. I found it quite interesting. I'd like to discuss it with you sometime.”

She shook her head in amazement. “If I ever get around to writing a mystery, I'll call it
Death and the Literary Sergeant
and dedicate it to you. And do give me a call; I'd like that.”

“If you two are quite finished,” Powell said, “we've a train to catch.”

They waved as Black drove off. A few minutes later they were sitting together in their coach, strangely silent.

It wasn't until the train was pulling out of the station that Jane Goode spoke.

“It's a funny old life, isn't it?”

“Didn't Margaret Thatcher say that when they stuck the knife in?”

She stared straight ahead. “I went to Penrick to write a book, ended up getting involved in a murder and falling for a man with a cane.”

Powell stunned. “Jane, I—”

“Don't pay any attention to me, I find this sort of thing cathartic.” She turned to look at him. “I imagine you're happily married …”

He looked into her eyes and only barely managed a smile. “You've been taking lessons from Mrs. Polfrock.”

“It's none of my business, I know.”

“It's all right…” He hesitated. “I don't know, I don't normally think about marriage in those terms.”

“That's hardly a ringing endorsement of the institution.”

He looked away. “I guess what I'm trying to say is, I'm not the easiest person to live with. My wife has to put up with a lot. I tend to get… preoccupied with things.”

“So I've noticed.”

“I'm flattered, Jane, I really am. I want you to know that I find you very attractive and I wish … the thing is, I'm not in a position to—”

“I can assure you that I'm not in the habit of chasing after married men either.” There was something in her voice.

He looked at her. concern in his eyes. “Jane, I didn't mean—”

She sighed. “I know.” There was a lengthy silence. “But old Maggie was right. Who can say why things turn
out the way they do? Is it predetermination or simply random chance that one chooses a particular path or meets a particular person? And does it really matter in the end?”

Powell assumed that the questions were intended to be rhetorical so he stared out the window. An endless procession of power poles and fields flashed by, and an ominous-looking cooling tower in the distance like some high-tech scarecrow. Amidst the rhythmic clattering of the wheels and the gentle swaying of the coach, the sound of his breathing, the comforting pressure of Jane's arm against his, he was soon asleep.

A bright voice roused him. “We're here.”

He looked up groggily into Jane's smiling face. “What time is it?”

“Nearly three. I didn't want to wake you.”

Powell looked out the window at the familiar surroundings of Paddington Station.

“We'd better get off,” Jane was saying. “Here's your stick. I'll take your bag.”

There was an awkward moment as they stood together on the crowded platform.

“Take care of yourself, Powell.”

“You, too.”

She pressed something into his hand, her fingers warm and probing. A piece of paper. “My phone number—for Sergeant Black. He wanted to talk to me about my book.”

“Yes, of course.”

“Goodbye.”

His goodbye was still on his lips as she slipped into the stream of passersby.

He made his way slowly outside and hailed a cab.

When Powell arrived at the Yard, he had to endure the inevitable cracks about the cane and his general state of decrepitude as he limped to his office. “Bloody touching,” he remarked to Inspector Richards as he slumped into his chair. His desk was uncharacteristically neat and tidy, like a fallow field of simulated wood grain plastic laminate waiting to be sown with paper. He looked around the office. Everything was as he'd left it. Drab metal bookshelves and file cabinets, and in keeping with the Metropolitan Police Green Plan, not a trace of endangered hardwoods anywhere. Another of Sir Henry Merriman's PC. initiatives (Politically Constipated, to the rank and file). Powell grimaced.

“It looks painful, sir,” Richards said eventually.

Powell ignored him. “How's our pigeon?”

“Ready to go whenever you are.”

“Any indications?”

Richards yawned. It wasn't his case so he wasn't particularly interested. “We told him we wanted to question
him about the murder of Nick Tebble. He's been cautioned but hasn't shown any interest in calling a lawyer. He seems a bit jumpy. If he's got something to hide, it's my guess he'll sing.”

Do pigeons sing? Powell wondered. “Did he say what he was doing in London?”

“Claims he's been working too hard and needed a break.”

“I don't bloody doubt it. You'd better come along to keep me from throttling the bugger.”

A sudden look of alarm flickered across Richards's face. “Yes, sir.” The young up-and-coming inspector took himself very seriously.

“And I'd like you to take notes.”

“Sir?” An “I don't do windows” sort of expression.

Powell glared at him. “Yes, Richards?”

Inspector Richards sighed. “Very good, sir.”

Rowlands was waiting in the interview room, watched over by a fresh-faced constable. He twisted around awkwardly in his tiny chair as Powell and Inspector Richards walked in. An attempt to suppress the look of alarm on his face failed, but he said nothing.

Not a poker player, Powell thought. He dismissed the constable and pulled up a chair opposite Rowlands, placing his cane carefully on the table. Richards sat in the corner behind Rowlands, fiddling with his notebook.

“Surprised to see me, Tony?” Powell said evenly.

Rowlands's large face was moist with perspiration. He refused to meet Powell's eye. “I heard you had an accident.” His voice brittle.

“Somebody pushed me down a mine shaft, if that's what you're referring to.”

There was panic in Rowlands's eyes. “Pushed? What do you mean? I was at the pub, ask Jenny!” He looked almost comically earnest.

Powell smiled. “Good heavens. I've only asked one question and you've already raised so many interesting points. First off, when did you say you were at the pub?”

“Tuesday afternoon. There were customers that must have seen me.” Rowlands was sweating profusely now.

“Tuesday afternoon?” A pregnant pause.

“Yeah, well I bumped into old George that evening, didn't I? He told me that you'd, er, had an accident at the mine.”

“George?”

“Polfrock.”

“Oh, yes, one of your best customers, I understand.”

Rowlands spoke very carefully. “He comes in for a drink now and then. When the old lady lets him out, that is.”

“Is that where you bumped into old George, at the pub?”

“Yeah, why don't you ask Jenny?” A trace of belligerence in his voice now.

“Ah, yes. Jenny. Her name does seem constantly to come up in relation to your whereabouts.”

“We work together, don't we?”

Powell smirked. “What else do you do together, Tony?”

“That's none of your business.” Rowlands answered indignantly.

“It's your alibi, not mine.”

“Alibi? What do you mean?”

Powell stared at Rowlands without replying. He had seen and heard enough to come to some conclusions. Thick as a plank but possessed, no doubt, with a certain measure of cunning when it came to preserving his own skin. But a killer? He reached under the table and gently massaged his knee. He was trying to keep an open mind. In any case, he decided that subtlety would be wasted on Rowlands—best to let him have it with both barrels, although it could prove to be a difficult shot. “Tony,” he said suddenly, “what does Linda Porter think about Jenny working under you?”

For a moment Powell was concerned that he'd have to leap over the table and administer mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. Rowlands had turned a ghastly shade of purple and was sputtering apoplectically, his thick lips flecked with spittle.

Powell was mildly relieved a few seconds later when Rowlands motioned frantically for the water pitcher at the far end of the table. “Richards, get Mr. Rowlands a glass of water, would you?”

Richards sauntered over grudgingly, poured a glass from the carafe, and handed it to Rowlands.

Rowlands guzzled it greedily. His demeanor gradually returned to a semblance of normality.

“I know about you and Linda, Tony, so there's no point in denying it. I also know about your little smuggling operation. And finally,” he lied, “I know all about Nick Tebble. Why don't you come clean and save us both a lot of trouble?”

“You can't keep a secret in that sodding town,” Rowlands muttered. Then he was silent for a considerable
length of time and one could almost hear the wheels turning. He looked at Powell, eyes narrowing. “What's in it for me?” he asked.

“That depends on what you've done, doesn't it?”

“Well, I never killed anybody—never even tried to.” he added quickly.

“Well, that's a start. You know that you're free to contact a solicitor at any time?” Powell said, crossing his fingers.

Rowlands sighed heavily. “Ask me anything you want. I've got nothing to lose anymore. I just want some bloody peace of mind. You don't know what it's been like living with what I've had to live with all these years.”