Caught Out in Cornwall (15 page)

And you would not have been able to resist that under any circumstances, Jack thought. It was amazing – within a few days Rose had met the whole damn cast. Not only that, she had discovered the existence of a boyfriend that the police did not know about, another male, another
possible suspect, especially if Rose’s suspicions of jealousy were correct. But that, of course, was Rose. Yet how innocent she looked, how small, in her armchair by the fire with her reddish auburn hair shining and her face bereft of makeup. ‘It’s too late to do anything more tonight,’ he said. But first thing in the morning he would be interviewing Carol Harte in depth and then her boyfriend, whoever he might be. And, cruel though it might be, Sally would have to be questioned about the matter of her daughter’s coat. ‘Jack?’

‘I’m sorry, I was thinking.’

‘I asked if you’d eaten.’

He couldn’t recall how many hours ago it was that he’d had a sandwich but it was probably more than seven.

‘I can see that the answer is no. I’ll get you something. Help yourself to another drink.’ She sent to the kitchen and made a mushroom omelette whilst a baguette warmed in the oven. But when she carried the tray into the sitting-room, Jack was asleep in the chair.

When Geoff Carter opened the gallery on Monday morning he was surprised to find there was a telephone message. His machine timed it as having been left at ten past three the previous afternoon. Now and then a potential overseas buyer rang after hours, but this was no customer. She had rung before she received the awful news.

‘Hello, it’s Carol Harte,’ the voice began tentatively. ‘We met in Tesco’s.’ Geoff shook his head. Was she that insecure she thought he’d have forgotten her already? ‘I just wanted to thank you for your time and your kindness to me on Friday night. Talking to you helped so much that I’ve been able to sort out my problems.’ There
was a slight pause. ‘I, well, your offer was very generous but I won’t need a shoulder to cry on again. Thank you, Geoff. And goodbye.’

‘There goes another one. At least it was a polite brush off,’ he said to himself as he began to prepare the gallery for the day ahead. And what a day it was; an Indian summer day. Hopefully it would bring the customers out.

By mid-morning he had already made two sales and was delighted further by the third because it was one of Rose’s dramatic oils. She, of course, would be even more delighted. When the customer had left he rang her to give her the news but she wasn’t at home. He ought to have realised that she would be making the most of the fine weather and working out of doors somewhere. He left a message then added, ‘By the way, our mutual friend Carol Harte rang me to say that she’s sorted out her problems in the short time since I spoke to her. I wonder what she finally decided.’ The last sentence was spoken deliberately. He didn’t know the answer but he would bet anything that Rose would try to find it out. He turned his attention to the coffee which had finally percolated. It was the second pot he had made that day. Good business always made him thirsty.

Jack had gone by the time Rose got up on Monday morning. He must have woken very early as the clock on the mantelpiece showed it was still only 6.21. She had tucked a duvet around him where he slept in the chair, knowing that if she woke him he would not go back to sleep again. He was the only person she had met who could sleep anywhere and not wake feeling stiff or unrefreshed. He had left a note saying he would call in later and let her know the outcome of his enquiries about Beth’s jacket.

She wasted no time that morning and was out of the house by nine thirty. It would have been sooner but she had waited until it was completely light and could gauge the weather better.

It was some time since she had painted a mine stack and that was what her objective was today, or, at least, to make a start. There was a scene nearby she had not attempted before.

She drove out of Penzance and along the A394 until she reached Goldsithney, a village on the other side of Marazion. She parked on the grass verge of the road and walked to a good vantage point where she scanned the landscape carefully. In the foreground was a field which had been harvested earlier in the year. She could work from there without fear of damaging any crops or
unsettling animals. Beyond the field was a hedge, behind that and to the right was an old engine house, not, like many, in ruins but complete with slate roof and mellow brickwork that was not even starting to crumble. There was also a house, half hidden by a tall tree, and two mine stacks, also in good condition. These structures gave perfect balance to the scene, as did the colours. A blue sky arced over the earthy, autumnal tints of nature and the buildings. Relief was added in the form of the white walls of the partially visible house.

Within ten minutes Rose had planned the painting in her head. She chose a spot to stand, opened her canvas satchel and set up her easel and the canvas she had prepared in advance then began to block it out.

Stopping only once for coffee she had brought in a flask, she carried on until her back began to ache. It was time to stop anyway as the light had started to change. The sky was paler, milky now rather than blue, and there was a haze building up in the distance. She packed up her things and walked back to the car.

On the way home she decided to call in and see her father. They had not made plans to meet again when they last spoke over the telephone
and she didn’t want him to feel neglected. There was also the matter of inviting Jack for Christmas. When other things, such as Beth Jones, preoccupied her, her memory for everyday things became impaired. And the cake remained unmade although she had got as far as putting the fruit in brandy to soak.

‘What a lovely surprise,’ Arthur said when he answered the door. ‘Come in, I’m only watching the racing.’ He had always taken an interest in horses and read the form but since his retirement he had been able to attend meetings as well as watching the runners on television. He and Evelyn had always loved the Cheltenham meeting in March. But there were no racecourses in Cornwall, only point-to-point meetings. The nearest racing was in Devon, at Newton Abbot or Exeter.

‘I won’t spoil your fun, then. I just wanted to know when you’d like to come over for dinner.’

‘How about Thursday? I’m busy tomorrow and you’ve got your class on Wednesday.’

‘Oh? And why are you smiling so enigmatically?’ He can’t have met a woman, not yet, Rose thought with a touch of panic followed by a surge of loyalty to her mother. They had had a long and happy marriage and Arthur had
adored Evelyn. But that, Rose realised, meant nothing, because she had seen it before. In similar circumstances the bereaved partner often found someone else quickly. Having experienced a happy relationship they were eager to repeat the pattern.

‘Sid, that’s my friend in Redruth, has suggested that I go along with him to bridge classes. Apparently, once you know what you’re doing you get invited to bridge parties. It’s an ideal way in which to get to know a few more people.’

‘It’s a wonderful idea.’ She hugged him, partly in relief but also because she was genuinely pleased. ‘Now, while I’m here, there’s something I want to ask you. It’s about Christmas. How would you feel about me asking Jack?’

‘Very pleased. The more the merrier.’

‘Are you sure? I mean, this first one without …’ Tears filled her eyes.

Arthur stroked her cheek. ‘Rose, darling, this one’s going to be the hardest to bear wherever I am and whoever I’m with. With Jack there, too, I’ll have to make even more of an effort and, believe me, it’ll be better for all of us that way.’

‘Okay, I’ll ask him. Now you go back and lose some more of your hard earned savings on the gee-gees. I’ll see you on Thursday.’

Arthur watched her go. She was so like a younger version of Evelyn; slim and youthful, graceful but bouncy. But Evelyn had not spent over half of her life in jeans and paint splashed shirts and fishermen’s jumpers. She had been brought up in a different era. He smiled as he wondered just how much Rose imagined he spent on betting. It wasn’t much, just a couple of pounds a couple of times a week. And it gave him something to do. First he went out to buy the paper then he sat down to pick his horses. That done, he walked down to Newlyn to the tiny, privately owned betting shop belonging to a local family, one of the few such establishments left in the country, he guessed. He was beginning to be recognised by some of the regulars, which was an added bonus.

The last televised race of the day was about to start. Maybe this time he’d picked a winner.

The house was warm when Rose got home. The sun was still shining through the sitting-room window and the heating had switched itself on half an hour previously. While the kettle boiled she cleaned her brushes and stacked her gear in the larder. Jack would be there later, although she had no idea what time or whether he wanted to eat with her. With her stockpile of fish it was
never a problem feeding other people. Most of it she had to freeze but it could be cooked without thawing. She was longing to know what had happened to Beth’s jacket and why it had not been found.

With a notepad in front of her she began to make a list for her Christmas shopping. She didn’t usually bother much, just gifts for her parents and close friends. If she was on her own her meal would be whatever she fancied. Buying cakes and biscuits and chocolates would be wasteful, as she did not enjoy sweet things. This year would be different. She would do the whole thing for the two men who meant the most to her. She had only taken the first sip of her tea when the telephone rang. It was Jack.

‘I can make it about six, if that’s all right,’ he said..

‘That’s fine. Shall I cook?’

‘No. Why don’t we go out to eat?’

‘It suits me, but it’s my turn to pay.’ Jack nearly always insisted on paying the bill. It embarrassed Rose, who could pay her way and who always bought her round in the pub. It was a trait she had inherited from her father.

‘We’ll see. I’ll get there as soon as I can.’

Rose hung up. There were many questions she
wanted to ask him but she knew that she would learn nothing over the telephone, especially from the one in Jack’s office. She knew from Laura, who had gone to school with Jack and had later met his wife, that he had never discussed his cases with her. What Rose didn’t know was whether that was because Marian was indifferent to his work or whether it was a compliment to herself in that Jack trusted her enough to realise that she would never repeat anything he told her. She would have to wait to have her curiosity satisfied. What she had also learnt from Laura was that Jack’s divorce was not the usual cliché of busy policeman/neglected wife. ‘It was such a shame, really. They got on so well and they were both good with the boys, it was just that neither of them could settle in the others’ territory. Marian was a real city girl, and Jack, well, he’d never be happy anywhere other than Cornwall. Anyway, for your sake I’m glad it happened, even if, at times, you make that man’s life a misery.’ Rose smiled, recalling Laura’s words. The relationship was fine as it was and at least they were both free. David had been dead for almost five years when she met Jack and by that time he had been divorced for ten.

The tea was cold. She made some more and carried on with her list.

Now that she didn’t have food to prepare she could spend some time in the attic where paperwork awaited her. She had already decided that all six watercolours for the set of notelets she was working on for Barry would depict subtropical plants. They would form an unusual set. These she could continue to work on through the winter, if the weather allowed, rather than wait, as she usually did, for spring when the wild hedgerow flowers bloomed.

Darkness had fallen by the time she had finished but the attic was bright with spotlights. She decided it was time to shower and change.

Tingling from the heat of the water, Rose put on a cream, boat-neck sweater and a flowing skirt in shades of rust. The tops of her best leather boots were hidden beneath its hem. Her hair, freshly washed, hung softly to her shoulders and she’d made her face up lightly. Casual, but smart, she told her reflection in the cheval mirror which stood in the corner of her bedroom. She folded her jeans and put them on a shelf in the cupboard, which was built in to the wall. Also fitted with a hanging rail, it had become her wardrobe.

She was in the kitchen when Jack tapped on the window, startling her. ‘I didn’t hear the car.’

‘I didn’t bring it. It’s chilly, but dry so I thought
we’d walk, and that way you don’t get to drink more than your share of the wine.’ He kissed her. ‘You look nice.’

‘Thank you.’ It was as much of a compliment as she could expect from Jack. ‘Where are we going?’

‘I’ve booked a table at the Renaissance.’

‘Lovely. Well I’m ready. Shall we go?’

Rose locked up then they walked down the hill, passing the harbour which, because of the suitable weather, was almost denuded of fishing boats, then on past the lighted windows of pubs and cottages. The salvage tug was still there, an oasis of light in the inky water. The clearness of the night meant that the constellations were easily recognisable. It was David who had taught her their various names. Sounds carried across the water in the still air; metal on metal, someone working on a boat, perhaps, and the chug of a trawler out in the bay, its lights just visible as it neared the horizon.

There were no street lights along the path which ran along beside the beach although, on the other side of the main road from which they were divided by the gardens an orange glow could be seen between the palm trees. On a cloudy night it was hard to tell if anyone was walking towards
you but at least it meant it remained unspoiled.

Jack was quiet; deep in thought. Rose knew he needed time to unwind, that once they were seated and the wine had been poured he would begin to talk. Or she hoped that he would.

They passed the white walls of the open-air swimming pool, now closed for the winter and for the annual repairs that were always required because of the battering it took from the sea which both surrounded and fed it. They reached Penzance harbour where the Scillonian was being overhauled, along with other large vessels, and came to Ross Bridge. This could be swung open when a ship was coming in to the dry dock. Traffic then had to find an alternative route in and out of the town.

The Renaissance was a restaurant in the Wharfside shopping centre, which by most standards was small. It was built on two levels; the lower one was opposite the harbour. The upper level, above which were luxury flats, was reached by stairs and an escalator or could be approached directly from Market Jew Street which was much higher up. The Renaissance was on the upper level and had marvellous views.

They were lucky, their table was in the window and they could see the harbour and the
lights around the bay. Jack ordered a bottle of wine. ‘We’d like it straight away, please,’ he told the cheerful young waitress.

Rose lit a cigarette and waited, wondering how long it would be before Jack felt like talking. For the moment he was busy alternating his gaze between the menu and the specials board on the wall behind him.

By the time they had ordered Rose’s impatience was beginning to show. She fiddled with the crockery, bit her lower lip and avoided making eye contact with Jack. When she finally looked up he was leaning back in his chair, arms folded, a wide smile on his face. ‘You deserve a medal,’ he said.