Killed in Cornwall (10 page)

Jack returned to the garden. He saw how tired Rose looked and realised the strain she had been under. He would do his best to cheer her up.

As the sun moved further westwards the garden became cooler. ‘Let’s go inside, supper won’t be long.’ Jack carried their glasses then set to in the kitchen.

‘Sorry it wasn’t very exciting,’ he said as he piled the dirty dishes in the sink.

‘It was fine.’ The makeshift mixed grill had consisted of his breakfast ingredients: bacon, circles of herb flavoured local sausage cut from a ring, known as hog’s pudding, eggs and mushrooms served with a tin of peas. ‘I think I’ll go home now, Jack. It’s all beginning to catch up on me. I feel exhausted.’

‘Want a taxi?’

‘Yes, I think I do.’

Fifteen minutes later Rose paid the driver, let herself into the house and went straight to bed.

‘What is it?’ Joyce Jago studied her daughter’s face.

‘Nothing, Mum. Honestly.’ Sam got up and left the kitchen where she and her mother had been sitting, a slice of toast untouched on her plate. There were only a few classes to attend until the end of term and they seemed so unnecessary now that the exams were over. It would be different this time next year when she would be awaiting the results of her A levels.

Upstairs she sat on the bed wondering what to do. It had been a mistake to offer to cover for Lucy, and the guilt at what had happened to her friend was eating away at her. And Lucy refused
to speak to her, as if it really was Sam’s fault. In the end she had admitted her part to the police but, out of loyalty to her friend, she had not given them Jason’s name. ‘Mum doesn’t like Jason,’ Lucy had told her. ‘The only way I can get to see him is if I say I’m with you.’ Sam had believed her at first but during one of their conversations Lucy had let things slip, things which, on their own didn’t amount to much but which lately had worried Sam.

She got up and walked across the room to stare at herself in the mirror. Without vanity she realised that she was pretty. Her figure, in jeans and T-shirt, was slim with curves in the right places. Other girls, less attractive than her, had boyfriends, why didn’t she? Lucy always accused her of being too serious, of thinking too much of the future while she wasted her youth. But Lucy had left school and had a job and Lucy had a boyfriend. Sam wanted more than that, she wanted a career, one that was respected and well paid. Perhaps boys her own age sensed that and left her alone. But it was Lucy who had been raped, Lucy who had not been with Jason at the end of the evening. And Sam thought she had an idea why that might be. Go to the police, her conscience dictated, but it might mean real
trouble for Lucy and she couldn’t put her through that now.

She picked up her knapsack, shoved her mobile phone in the bottom of it and left the house without knowing where she was going.

Joyce Jago heard the front door slam and sighed. Sometimes she wondered what life was all about. Her daughter lived in a world of her own and Ivan was away so often or off playing golf that she hardly seemed to have a family.

Sam had been questioned by the police but Joyce had not been present. Seventeen was considered old enough not to need an adult in attendance. Sam refused to discuss it with her but Joyce, once she had read the paper and coupled Lucy’s lack of communication with Sam with the article, guessed at the truth. She shuddered to think it might have been her own daughter. If only Ivan wasn’t away again she could have discussed it with him. The telephone was not the best mode of communication for a heart to heart.

But I do need to discuss this with someone, she thought, as she tilted Sam’s plate over the waste-bin. The toast landed on top of the remains of the dinner Sam had left last night.

It was later that morning, as she sat in the secluded back garden of the spacious house Ivan’s
job had paid for, trying to capture on paper the mass of flowering clematis which trailed along the fence, that she wondered if Rose Trevelyan would lend a willing ear. She struck Joyce as a person who would be glad to help if it was possible. Joyce smiled at the irony of the situation. Rose was her tutor at the art classes she attended. They were both adults. Normally the situation was reversed and a troubled adolescent would go to her teacher with a problem, especially if it concerned her parents, not the other way around. The next class was tomorrow night but Joyce decided she couldn’t wait any longer and, besides, she didn’t want to discuss what was bothering her in front of the others. She got up, went back inside the house, looked up the number and rang it. There was no reply. Hesitating only a second or so she left a message asking Rose to ring her back. Feeling marginally relieved that she had done something she went back to complete the piece of work Rose had set for them. Natural life, she had said, adding no more, just smiling and allowing her pupils to make their own interpretation of the title. Joyce wondered if anyone would produce a nude and, if so, who they would have got to model for them.

‘Hello.’ Rose tried to smile but she was shocked at Lucy Chandler’s appearance. Having only seen her once or twice her memory was of a plump, vivacious brunette who made up for average looks with an infectious smile and plenty of personality. From what Laura had told her Gwen had had problems controlling her, even as a small child. But this was no child. Lucy was seventeen and out at work. This was a young woman who might never trust a man again, who might never smile that wide-mouthed smile that Rose remembered.

Lucy nodded but did not respond verbally to Rose’s greeting. Gwen Chandler sat at the table, pale but composed. ‘Hello, Rose, Laura said you were coming.’

Rose sat down. Laura had introduced her to Gwen some time ago but Rose did not really know her any more than she knew the daughter. What do I say? Nice to see you again? Hardly, under the circumstances, and was she supposed to know what those circumstances were? Laura had not said when she telephoned.

‘We’ve both taken another week off work. Lucy’s in no state to go back yet,’ Gwen said, making it clear that the subject was not taboo. ‘How are you coping?’

‘Not too well.’

Rose recalled that the husband had left when Lucy was small and, as far as she knew, only kept in touch with his daughter. Gwen, therefore, had to manage on her own. ‘And you, Lucy?’

Lucy shrugged. Her thick, dark hair hung limply around her shoulders. It needed washing. ‘Not much to cope with, is there? It’s happened, nothing can change that.’

‘And you’ve no idea who it was?’ I shouldn’t have said that, Rose thought. Straight in again, no tact.

‘No. Don’t you think I’d have named the bastard if I did?’

Anger, a good sign. Lucy was looking at Rose now. There was colour in her cheeks and a defiant expression on her face. Rose felt Laura’s eyes on her own face. ‘People don’t always,’ Rose said gently.

‘You think I’m protecting someone? God, I’m sick of this whole thing. And if it wasn’t for Jason …’ she stopped and put her head in her hands.

Protecting Jason? From what? Rose wondered. ‘Has he been to see you?’

‘No. And I don’t want him to. He won’t want anything to do with me now.’

‘I’ve tried to explain that it wasn’t her fault, that she’s nothing to feel guilty about, but she won’t listen. Even the counsellor they sent couldn’t get that through to her. No one deserves that to happen.’ Gwen accepted the coffee Laura was handing around.

‘How’s your mum?’ Laura decided no good would come of continuing the conversation.

‘The same. Dad thinks they’ll let her out on Saturday.’ Rose wondered what she was doing there. None of them seemed willing to talk. ‘That’s a lovely watch,’ she said as Lucy reached for her cup.

‘Yes. It was a present.’

‘Jason gave it to her. He’s very generous. I wish you’d let me meet him, Lucy. I won’t bite, you know.’

‘It’s too late now.’

Rose studied the interaction between mother and daughter. It was odd that the latter needed Sam to cover for her if Gwen had expressed a wish to meet Jason. Gwen was trying her best but Lucy’s sullenness seemed contrived. It was an uncharitable thought after what the girl had been through.

‘Can we talk about something else? I thought we were coming to see Laura to get us out of the house not to hold an inquisition.’

Rose was embarrassed. Lucy was right. The problem would not be solved by idle curiosity even if those asking the questions cared. ‘I think I’d better be going. The weather looks as if it’ll hold and I need to get some work done.’ She stood and unhooked her bag from the back of the chair. It was worth one more go. ‘Is there any message for Sam? I’ll be seeing her mother tomorrow evening.’

‘Yes. No. No, it doesn’t matter.’

She needs her friend, Rose thought as she said goodbye, but she’s too proud to admit it. Maybe I’ll mention it to Joyce and leave it to her.

There was no breeze but even the still, warm air felt fresh after the claustrophobic atmosphere in Laura’s kitchen. So much was not being said. Rose had done her bit, work must come first now. She had already decided not to go far, she would work from the beach. The painting had been planned in her head. Newlyn, with its steeply tiered houses, below them the harbour walls above which the masts of fishing vessels loomed and the sea in the foreground. The composition was perfect.

The sun moved imperceptibly across the bay, at first warming her shoulders then the side of her face. She worked solidly, unaware of the time
which was passing. Finally Rose left the damp canvas on the easel and stood back to study her work, rubbing her stiff back with her hand. It was good. Another oil was well on its way to completion. She could have carried on a little longer but knew that the result of over-extension was staleness. Stop while the going’s good, she told herself. Taking her flask from her bag she sat on the water-smoothed pebbles and thought how lucky she was. After David died she had not believed it possible to ever be happy again but she had come to appreciate loyal friends and her work and, more recently, a small claim to fame. There were so many people less fortunate than herself. Lucy Chandler for one. When the unfinished painting was dry enough to carry without danger of its smudging, Rose walked home.

Having unpacked her gear and cleaned her brushes she put everything in the larder then went to see if there had been any phone calls in her absence. The light blinked twice. Rose pressed the button and listened. ‘It’s Barry, Rose. Just a quick call to see how your mother’s doing. Oh, and if you’ve got a minute, can I call in after work? If I don’t hear from you I’ll take it you’re busy.’

The second message surprised her. It was from Joyce Jago, her most talented pupil. Few of them showed any great promise but as long as they enjoyed the classes and working on what they produced in their own time Rose did not see that it mattered. Joyce did not say what she wanted, only that she would be grateful if Rose could return the call. She glanced at her watch.
Four-fifty
. Joyce might well be at home; Rose had an idea that she worked part-time. She dialled the number given.

‘Rose, thank you for ringing back. It sounds silly now but I really didn’t know who else to talk to and my husband’s away on business for a few more days.’

Rose waited. This was nothing to do with the evening class. What was expected of her now?

‘It’s about Sam really.’

I’ve been here once today, Rose thought, memories of the awkward morning returning. Lucy and now Sam. Again. Whatever made people think she was equipped to deal with teenage girls? ‘Has something happened? Is she ill?’

‘No. It’s just the way she’s been acting ever since the police came. Oh dear, I’ll have to go now. I’m sorry, I really shouldn’t have bothered you.’

‘No, wait.’ Rose had heard a door close in the background and guessed correctly that Sam had come home unexpectedly.

‘I usually go for a walk about half-past five. Could you manage that?’ Damn, I forgot about Barry, she thought. Whatever he wanted would now have to wait.

‘Yes, I can. Shall I meet you somewhere?’

They agreed to be by the bandstand in Morrab Gardens at a quarter to six. Rose had time to change out of her paint-splattered clothes and ring her father before she set off. He was no longer spending every minute at the hospital, he had told her, it was tiring for him and for Evelyn. Satisfied that her mother’s condition was improving and that June Potter, their neighbour, was keeping an eye on her father, Rose hung up.

She left the house grateful to be unencumbered by her canvas satchel or her photographic equipment. Walking briskly, enjoying her daily exercise, she reached Morrab Gardens with time to spare. Sitting on one of the seats by the bandstand she watched the birds flit between the trees and studied the sub-tropical plants, most of which were now in flower.

Joyce Jago arrived five minutes late, a little breathless from hurrying. She was a plump
woman of about forty with permed blonde hair, a lived-in face and a careworn expression. Even so she was attractive although in a sensual rather than traditional way. ‘Thanks for coming, Rose. I couldn’t ask you to my place because I never know when Sam’s going to be there.’

‘I take it she’s at the stage where communication with a parent isn’t the done thing.’ Rose wanted to keep it light. She crossed her legs and tugged at her short denim skirt when a man walking past lowered his eyes to her knees.

‘I’m hoping that’s just all it is. She’s got the whole summer ahead of her now but, I don’t know, she seems depressed.’

‘Boyfriend trouble?’

‘Not that I’m aware of. She’s never mentioned anyone in particular and she’s stopped going out with her friends in the evenings. She just sits up in her room playing music.’ Joyce smiled ruefully. ‘I can’t even complain that it’s loud.’

It has to be to do with Lucy, Rose realised. Lucy was hiding something, maybe Sam had something to hide, too. Did they know the man who had raped and killed? If so, no wonder Sam was depressed. But there was no way she could ask. Joyce might not even know what had happened to Lucy.

‘I don’t know why I’m here, really. I suppose I just wanted to unburden myself.’

But her face said it all, she was afraid that Sam was in some sort of serious trouble, but Rose had no idea what she could do to help.

They sat in the sunshine surrounded by trees and plants and their shadows which lengthened over the lawns. After a couple of minutes Joyce spoke again. ‘I think her best friend was raped. Sam was supposed to be meeting her. I think she somehow blames herself.’

So much guilt, Rose thought. So much unnecessary guilt.

‘They’ve been friends for as long as I can remember. Sam’s hurt because Lucy won’t speak to her.’

‘Why not?’

‘I don’t know. Lucy probably doesn’t feel like speaking to anyone at the moment. Although it did cross my mind that the two of them might have been involved in something else. But there’s no point in asking, Sam won’t tell me anything.