Caught Out in Cornwall (18 page)

‘Of course.’ Any developments. He knew what
that meant. They still suspected him even though his alibi was watertight. Why? Because, he assumed, alibis could be arranged, or fixed, or whatever the jargon was.

He packed his small bag, paid his bill and left. He never wanted to see Marazion again.

In typical West Cornwall fashion the weather changed and clouds began to gather. Within minutes the sky was a pearly grey and the first spots of rain began to fall. Rose sighed. So much for her plans for the afternoon. She had intended continuing working on the mine scene which was already pleasing to the eye. It was exactly the sort of oil that sold well in Geoff’s gallery. For some reason she felt in need of company other than her own. She went outside and got back into the car again.

When she reached Penzance she parked, pulled her raincoat from the back seat of the car and walked down the hill to Barry’s shop. Like the man himself, this, too, had received a facelift but that was due to Daphne Hill rather than its owner. Daphne had taken it upon herself to rearrange the stock, thus making more room for browsers, and whilst she was doing so she had cleaned all the shelves.

Barry was spending more time at the print
works in Camborne where he oversaw the production of his specialised greetings cards and other stationery. He also spent time with Jenny. Rose was in luck, Barry was at the back of the shop making a stock list when she arrived.

‘Hello Daphne, how’s things?’

‘Fine, thanks, Rose. You?’

‘Could be better. I was hoping to work.’ She looked towards the window where raindrops glistened. ‘Is Barry around?’

‘I am.’ He appeared in the doorway. ‘I heard your voice. How are you, stranger?’

‘I saw you on Sunday, it’s only Tuesday.’ She smiled at his absentmindedness.

Wrong move, he thought, I shouldn’t have mentioned Sunday. And Rose, despite the smile, looked worried. ‘I think this can wait.’ He put the folder he was holding beneath the counter. ‘Fancy a coffee or a drink?’

‘It’s early, even by my standards, but I could do with the latter. Let me get the car then I can drive us down to the Yacht. I can pick it up tomorrow.’

‘I’ll come with you. Will you be all right, Daphne?’

‘Of course I’ll be all right. You’re such a worrier, Barry.’ But she softened her words with a kind smile. ‘Do you want me to lock up?’

Barry looked startled. ‘It’s only half-past two, we’re not going to be that long.’

Daphne grinned at Rose. ‘It would do him good to let his hair down once in a while.’

‘Oh, I think he’s getting there even if it has taken him several decades.’ Rose liked Daphne who was a sensible, hardworking, down-to-earth woman who had been through a bad time and survived it. She was solidly built and took pride in her appearance – even if she wore more makeup and the costume jewellery than was necessary. She and her husband, Rod, had moved to Cornwall to escape their troubles and had settled in quickly, unlike many who missed the facilities of the towns and cities outside the county. Progress was being made, whether for good or bad, and some of the Penzance shops now stocked things unheard of five years ago in the way of food, but few newcomers appreciated that life was very much slower, that queues formed in shops because conversations took priority over speed. Even Rose, more accepting than the likes of Doreen and Cyril Clarke, was sorry that housing was becoming unaffordable for locals because prices were rocketing and so very many people were on the minimum wage. Let them come, she thought, but let them accept how it is here and
not try to bring all they believed they wanted to leave behind with them.

Rose and Barry hurried to the car. The wind was blowing harder, heavier rain would follow. Rose drove the short distance to the seafront where there was unlimited parking. If the wind kept up the car would be grimed with salt by the time she collected it.

The Yacht Inn, like the open air Jubilee Pool opposite, was of art deco design and had been built in the 1930s. The bar area was spacious with a large bay window on the lower level and smaller ones on the upper, through all of which the panorama of the bay could be seen. A rolling swell was surging in on the tide. It looked harmless, unlike the breakers which often smashed against the Promenade wall, but it was this motion which caused the most seasickness.

The usual early afternoon crowd were seated on the high stools at the bar; the landlord of another local pub which shut at half-past two on winter afternoons, a retired garage owner from Buryas Bridge, a court bailiff and an ex-CID officer who had retired through injury. Rose knew and liked them all. She turned and waved to a sprightly and dapper nonagenarian who came in every day for lunch and went home by taxi.

‘Now, what’s on your mind?’ Barry asked once he had ordered their drinks and paid the young barman who, he knew, played for the local rugby club.

‘That’s the problem, I can’t tell you. I’m sorry, Barry, it’s something that was told to me in confidence.’

‘Fair enough.’ There was no point in pursuing it, Rose would never break her word. ‘But I can take it it’s to do with Beth.’

‘Yes, unfortunately it is. And I honestly don’t know what to do about it.’

‘What you mean is, should you tell Jack.’ He was grinning. At times like this he could read her like a book but mostly she remained enigmatic. Rose Trevelyan, he thought, was a very complex creature and at that moment looked lovely with her hair wavier from the rain and her raincoat making her seem more petite than she actually was. He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror which lined the wall behind the bar and stood straighter. He had always been drop-shouldered and he couldn’t help the fact that his hair was thinning and he had to wear glasses but he was glad that, at Rose’s insistence, he had finally invested in a whole wardrobe of new clothes.

‘You’ve got it in one.’

‘Then tell him; at least it’ll be off your conscience if it’s relevant to the case.’ He was ashamed to admit that he enjoyed seeing her get one over on Jack. As much as he liked and admired the man he had been the cause of much jealousy over the last four or five years. At least Rose had not given in and agreed to live with him. Barry was aware that what he felt for Jenny had not lessened his feelings for Rose but he was now wise enough to realise that he couldn’t go on chasing that dream for ever.

‘Maybe I will.’ In fact, I know I’ll have to, she thought reluctantly. It was a peculiar situation although she had heard of instances where a grandmother had passed off her daughter’s illegitimate child as her own. It was not unremarkable when women became grandmothers in their thirties.

Carol loved and wanted her child but to have kept her would have finished her marriage. Sally, having brought Beth up since she was a tiny baby, probably hadn’t wanted to share her. This could explain the antipathy between the sisters and the reason why Alice Jones favoured Sally. It must have been hard for her to watch one of them produce a child she couldn’t keep whilst the other longed for a baby of her own. Yet
Carol had risked her marriage a second time by having an affair with Marcus. Accepted, that was over now, but she had still taken the risk. She’s lonely, Rose guessed, lonely and guilty and has no one in whom to confide. Maybe she wanted to get caught, maybe it would be some sort of punishment to show how unworthy she was.

‘Hello?’ Barry tapped her gently on the head. ‘What?’

‘You were miles away. I asked if you fancied sharing a curry with me tonight.’

‘No, not tonight, thanks, Barry. Later in the week, if you like. Aren’t you seeing Jenny?’

He shook his head. ‘She’s at her Italian class.’ Neither of them had any idea why she went because she disliked foreign travel. But Jenny took a different adult education course every year. ‘At least let me buy you another drink.’

It showed how worried she was when Rose didn’t insist it was her round.

Rose knew she was being antisocial, too preoccupied in her own thoughts, so she made an effort at conversation and mentioned the notelets she was currently working on.

‘Excellent idea. When will they be ready?’

‘In a week or so, weather depending, of course.’

Barry left after the second drink. He was no daytime drinker and he didn’t want to fall asleep in front of one of his favourite television programmes later that night.

‘Lightweight,’ Rose teased as he kissed her goodbye. ‘I’ll stay a bit longer and chat to the usual suspects.’

It was after four by the time she started to walk home. She was glad that she had stayed; the conversation had been stimulating and had taken her mind off Beth for a while.

The wind had dropped and the rain had eased but everything was shrouded in drizzle. All was now still and damp. Rose was thankful for her raincoat but soon warmed up as she walked briskly towards home. She had had to leave the car but she cursed when the Mousehole bus – which stopped wherever passengers requested it to and would have taken her to the bottom of her drive – passed her between stops without her having seen it coming.

As soon as she got indoors she rang Jack. He wasn’t in his office at Camborne and he didn’t answer his mobile so she left a message. Within half an hour he rang back. ‘You said to call you, what’s the matter now?’

‘Don’t snap at me, Jack.’

‘I didn’t mean to. I apologise.’

Rose heard the tension in his voice and realised how much pressure he would be under to solve the case. ‘I was ringing to see if you’d like to come over later. I’ll cook you a meal.’

‘That would be lovely. I think I can get away by seven. And, Rose, I really am sorry for snapping.’

There was time to make a bit of an effort. She sipped black coffee and listened to Radio 4 as she stuffed two large mackerel. There was no point in waiting for the local news on Radio Cornwall, Jack would have said if there had been any kind of breakthrough.

Once the vegetables were prepared she showered and changed into clean jeans and a pale green sweater. She didn’t bother with makeup but returned to the bedroom to spray on some perfume.

Jack arrived a little after seven, bearing flowers and wine. ‘To make up for my teasiness,’ he said, smiling at her surprised expression. Wine, yes, but he was not a man to bring flowers. ‘And, of course, for suspecting you of meddling.’

Oh, dear, she thought, what’s he going to say when I tell him. ‘I’ll have you know I don’t meddle. People simply choose to tell me things.’ She had nearly come out with it straight away.
‘Are you going to open the wine or shall we just look at it?’

‘Why are your cheeks so pink? Have you been on it already?’

‘I’ve just had a shower. But, yes, I did happen to call in to the Yacht on my way home.’

‘Ah, that’s why there’s no car in the drive. Say no more, it’ll be our secret.’

Rose didn’t know whether she was amused or infuriated, but Jack always had that effect on her. ‘The food won’t be long. Let’s drink this in the sitting-room, I’ve lit the fire to cheer the place up.’

Jack thought it was unnecessary. Rose’s sitting-room was one of the most cheerful rooms he knew of. Outside there was the view of the bay and the busy harbour, inside was her comfortable furniture, her bookcases and the small lamps which lit the room with a cosy glow. He sat down. Add to that the crackling of logs on the fire, the flickering shadows of the flames, a glass of wine and a meal to look forward to; and Rose. What more could a man ask for? One thing: the Beth Jones case to be solved.

‘We’re having to start all over again. Thinking that Beth went off willingly had us concentrating on her nearest and dearest. But now it’s back to square one, it could be anyone.’

All my fault, Rose thought. It’s entirely my fault for misleading them but I really thought I was being helpful. Would Beth’s life have been saved if I hadn’t told them what I thought I had seen? No, probably not, she decided. Jack had said that she had been killed on the Tuesday, the same day as she had been snatched. Whoever had done it could be anywhere in the world by now.

‘On the other hand,’ Jack continued, ‘it may well have been premeditated.’

‘How come?’

He told her about the barbiturates. ‘Of course, who’s to say her abductor didn’t always carry them or had just had a prescription filled. We’ve checked all the local chemists, both here and the one in Marazion. They all know their regular customers and neither Sally nor Carol take them. Poole doesn’t either.’

‘Could they have got them from someone else? Alice, say, or even Norma Penhalligon.’

‘Clever girl. But we’ve checked that, too. However, the motive still remains unclear. Beth wasn’t sexually abused, nor was she hurt in any other way and to drug her first meant that whoever killed her didn’t want her to feel anything. It’s all so damn confusing, Rose.’

‘It still sounds like someone who knew her to
me.’ Right, he has to know, and he has to know now. ‘I went to see Carol today. And before you say anything, Geoff Carter had rung her and volunteered my services because he told me she was in such a state.’

‘And was she in a state?’

‘Definitely. And her children were more or less fending for themselves.’

‘Well, she’s just lost her niece, it’s understandable.’

‘I don’t think you fully understand, Jack.’ She took a sip of her wine.

‘What, exactly, are you getting at?’

‘Carol told me that Beth was her daughter.’

‘What?’ With the glass halfway to his mouth he almost spilt his drink.

‘That’s what she told me. And there’s definitely a resemblance. It would also explain why she’s taking it so badly.’

‘Okay, Rose, let’s have the whole story.’

Continuing would probably bring trouble to one or both sisters but she had no choice. ‘Before Carol met and married John Harte she was going out with Michael Poole. It seems things didn’t work out but they weren’t helped by the fact that Sally made a play for, and got, Michael. This, apparently, was the pattern of their younger
lives. However, Sally and Michael were together for quite a long time and he didn’t want the relationship to end. It was Sally who broke it off.

‘I know this is going to sound unbelievable, but it rang true to me. Carol already had the two girls but she became pregnant whilst John was working abroad. She was in her third month when he returned. She couldn’t bring herself to tell him because he’d know it wasn’t his baby. By then it was too late for an abortion. You see, she hadn’t realised until it was too late that she was pregnant. Her cycle has never been regular. She had two choices. John wasn’t due back again for another six months. She could risk having the baby and try passing it off as his, a baby born prematurely, or she could ask someone else to bring it up for her. Obviously, without John’s permission, there was no question of adoption.’