Killed in Cornwall (4 page)

‘Mrs Trevelyan?’

His voice reached her as she was coming downstairs. Rose found him standing in the kitchen doorway. He had not stepped over the
threshold. ‘I’ve finished the lawn. I’ll come back next week at the same time and start on the back, if that’s convenient. I have another job to go on to this afternoon.’

‘That’s fine.’ She peered around him. ‘Goodness, it looks much better all ready. How much do I owe you?’

‘Twenty-two pounds fifty.’

She went to get her purse. She had enough cash with which to pay him. So much casual work was cash in hand and five pounds an hour was by no means extortionate even if it was more than many people earned.

He pocketed the money, thanked her, then packed up and left. As the van disappeared she heard the telephone ringing and hurried inside to answer it. There was enough of the day left to make a few sketches. God, and I haven’t even started to prepare for tomorrow’s evening class, she remembered as she picked up the receiver.

‘Hello, it’s me.’

‘Jack?’

‘How many men do you know with such a sexy voice?’ He laughed.

‘Oh, you’d be surprised, Inspector Pearce. One of them has just driven away.’

‘Oh?’

She ignored the implied question. ‘Did you ring for any particular reason or isn’t there enough crime to keep you occupied?’

Jack wasn’t sure what to make of her bantering tone. Maybe some man had been there, paying her attention. At least she wasn’t snapping at him; being ‘teasy’ as his mother would say. ‘I’ve got a few hours off, I was thinking we could do something.’

This, Rose realised, was one of the reasons why their relationship would never progress. Accepted, Jack worked odd hours, but when he was free he expected her to drop everything and join him. She worked, too, but few people understood how important it was to her. Artists did not simply go off with a blank canvas and knock off a painting then laze around until inspiration struck again. ‘I’ve got rather a lot on at the moment, Jack. And there’s the exhibition on Friday.’

‘I know. And I wish I could be there. I’m pretty busy too, this is the only time I can spare to see you this week. We’re still trying to clear up these break-ins.’

Rose sighed. She had heard the pleading in his tone even though he had not meant it to show. They compromised. Jack would meet her at six
and they would go out for a meal. That gave her an hour or so in which to work.

Minutes after she had replaced the receiver the phone rang again.

‘The funeral’s tomorrow afternoon. Two-thirty. Can you make it, Rose? It’s such short notice because the minister’s going away. Phyllis was one of his most regular attenders so he wants to conduct the service himself. I only found out myself last night.’

‘Of course. Where is it?’

Doreen gave her directions to the church and Rose said she would pick her up just after two.

‘I do appreciate it,’ she said. ‘Thank you.’

Rose was aware that Doreen would need the comfort of another friend when saying goodbye to Phyllis. Hopefully Nathan’s aunt would be there for him.

Having telephoned a florist to arrange flowers she left the house just as she was, in what had become her uniform; denim skirt, a short-sleeved shirt and espadrilles. Her hair was held back with a bright yellow band. Over her shoulder hung the large leather bag in which were pencils and various sketch pads. At the bottom of the drive she crossed the road to the safety of the pavement and walked along the coast towards Mousehole.
The pavement had now been widened to include a cycle path which she had yet to see anyone use, and extra seats had been added from which to admire the spectacular view. The rickety wooden railings had also been replaced. There was a long drop down to the rocks. Cars passed in both directions as did the buses whose route lay between Penzance and the picturesque fishing village with its narrow streets and tiny cottages. Rose passed several pedestrians, none of whom she knew, but they either nodded or said hello.

Sitting on a bench, she studied the shrubs and the wild flowers which grew high in the hedge and spilt down towards the rocks which lay hidden from the road. Gulls circled overhead and a male chaffinch, with its distinctive colouring, sang in a nearby tree. After a few minutes she began to sketch a purple flowered vetch with its delicate stem and pinnate leaves.

By five o’clock the sun was behind her and she had filled three pages, a single stem to each: vetch, cow parsley and common cleavers. Satisfied, she began the walk home. It was hot, but not unbearably so. When she reached the house and let herself in, she could smell the sun-warmed flesh of her arms. She realised there was now only about half an hour in which to shower and change and
be ready for Jack. She put on a yellow dress and brown leather sandals with a small heel. Her hair, freshly washed and quickly blow-dried, swung around her shoulders feeling thicker for the inch she had had trimmed from it.

Jack rapped on the kitchen window just as she had finished getting ready. David used to admire her ability to do so in minutes. She let Jack in noticing how tired he looked.

‘Um, you smell nice,’ he said as he bent to kiss her cheek.

‘I should do, it’s the perfume you bought me.’ His dark, springy hair had also recently been washed, it was still damp at the roots. She smiled, taking comfort, as she often did, from his size, his warmth and his familiar odour – a combination of clean cotton, lemony after-shave and the scent of his skin.

‘I thought we’d go to Fletcher’s. Is that all right with you?’

‘Great.’ She had not heard his car. ‘Did you drive?’ Jack shook his head. ‘Okay, I’m ready.’

They set off, walking side by side in silence, enjoying the summer evening. Rose was disappointed he hadn’t noticed the effort she’d made. Her normal attire was far less formal. At least he’d noticed the perfume.

They strolled along the Promenade and stopped to look out to sea. Few people, whether local or holiday-makers, could resist doing so. The familiar large white shape of the Scillion, returning from its daily crossing to St Mary’s, rounded the headland as it passed St Clement’s island. A few small craft drifted in the bay and a number of children swam in the water.

The Promenade was unspoiled, no buildings marred its length or wide expanse. On the opposite side of the road was the sole amusement arcade on the front. Above it was Fletcher’s restaurant. It was a large, ornate place with views of the sea. Most of the seating was arranged in high-backed booths where wooden benches ran either side of big, solid tables. The menu was American-based; burgers and ribs and barbecued chicken, with the addition of specials and salads.

‘Wine or a cocktail?’ Jack asked when they had been seated. He grinned. ‘Both, knowing you.’

‘Naturally. We’re on foot, after all.’ Rose picked up the menu.

Once their cocktails had arrived and they had placed their order, ribs for Jack and fish for Rose, Jack began to relax. ‘These burglaries are driving us mad. Ten successful ones and five
attempts now. We’re sure it’s the same person, or people, but can we pin them down?’ Rose might be irritating at times, occasionally interfering and always a mystery to him, but he trusted her totally. Nothing he said would go any further.

‘What sort of burglaries?’

‘Private houses. It seems whoever’s doing it studies the residents’ habits. Some have been in daylight.’

‘No fingerprints?’

‘Oh, yes, at several locations, but they don’t belong to anyone known to us.’

‘One of those gangs then?’

‘Possibly.’ The area had been targeted by gangs of thieves or conmen from cities, as had several other rural areas. They would come down, work the area then go away again before their crimes could be detected. Jack shook his head. ‘On the other hand, these jobs don’t look like the work of professionals. Rose, I want you to promise me you’ll lock your door from now on.’ And now a young girl had been raped. A statement had been given to the press but Lucy Chandler’s name had not been released. Even Rose could not be given that information. ‘Have you read today’s
Western Morning News
?’

‘No, I didn’t have time to buy it. Why?’

If she didn’t know he wasn’t going to mention it. ‘It’s nothing. Sorry, Rose, I shouldn’t be burdening you with this, we’re supposed to be enjoying ourselves. Tell me what you’ve been up to. No, wait,’ he held up his hands in mock despair, ‘I think I’d rather not know.’

‘Well, that man I was telling you about on the phone, he’s a gardener.’ But was he just a gardener? Dave Fox would have plenty of opportunities to study people’s movements. Was she being ridiculous? Rose wasn’t certain but she’d heed Jack’s warning.

‘What? For your small patch? Your dad been on at you again, has he?’ Jack liked Rose’s parents as much as they liked him and he knew how much they loved and cared for their own garden.

Rose laughed. ‘No. I wanted the lawn sorted out and you know how badly the back needs clearing.’

‘I could’ve done it for you.’

She detected a hint of jealousy and his next words proved her right.

‘What’s he like?’

‘He’s big and strong and very handsome. He told me he lives in a caravan and that he hasn’t always been a gardener. Apparently he’s just got himself a new girlfriend. He’s not local. I wonder
if he’s got a past, if this is his way of turning his back on it all?’

‘Honestly, woman, I meant is he doing a good job? I should’ve known you’d subject him to an interrogation.’

She sniffed. ‘He seems to be pretty efficient. Didn’t you notice the lawn? It’s flat now.’

‘Maybe so, but Rose, you know what you’re like. Don’t go poking your nose in. The man’s entitled to his private life.’

‘Don’t go poking your nose in,’ she mimicked. ‘Anyway, Doreen Clarke recommended him.’

‘Then say no more.’ The waitress placed the dry white wine and two glasses on the table. Jack thanked her, indicating that he would pour it himself. ‘How is Doreen?’ At the mention of her name Rose’s smile had faded.

‘She’s just lost a very old friend.’

‘I’m sorry. You knew her?’

‘Phyllis? Yes, I did. Not well but I met her on several occasions. I’m going to the funeral tomorrow, Doreen asked me especially, although I would have gone anyway.’

Jack reached across the table and took her hand. All right, Rose might be trouble at times but she was always there for someone else’s troubled times.

‘There’s a son. Nathan. He’s about forty. Heaven knows what’ll happen to him now.’ She smiled ironically. ‘It’s my turn to apologise. As you said, we’re supposed to be enjoying ourselves. And, as you can’t have helped but noticed, Inspector Pearce, my glass is empty.’

Jack smiled back even though Lucy Chandler was still on his mind. She had spent the remainder of Sunday night in hospital, bruised and shaken but with no serious injuries. The damage to her mind might be a different matter.

Pale-faced and a little overweight, she had come across as sensible and reasonably coherent. Unfortunately, her attacker had approached her from behind and had raped her from behind, his hand over her nose and mouth.

‘I didn’t turn around, I couldn’t,’ she had told them. ‘Even when I knew he had gone I stayed where I was and kept my eyes closed. I thought if he knew I’d seen him he’d come back and kill me.’

The equivalent of playing dead, Jack realised. It was often a victim’s natural reaction.

‘Jack? Are we leaving or are you falling asleep? Come on, you can walk me home.’

He smiled again. Surely that was an invitation to stay the night.

By Wednesday morning Gwen Chandler needed to get out of the house. More than that, she needed someone to talk to, someone other than her daughter or the WPC who had been assigned to them for as long as they needed her. Nothing she had said so far had encouraged Lucy to talk.

Gwen could not begin to imagine the effect the rape might have on her daughter’s future, she only knew what it had already done to herself. Her guilt was as predominant as her pity; a mother’s guilt, which led her to believe she could somehow have prevented the events of Sunday evening if she had acted differently or brought Lucy up some other way. But Lucy, unlike her
older brothers who had now left home, had never been easy to handle. I don’t even know if she was a virgin, Gwen realised as she picked up her handbag. But Lucy had just had her seventeenth birthday and Gwen wasn’t sure if it was any of her business. The boys had done well for themselves, like their absent father whom she had long since divorced. At one point she had wondered if Lucy was employable but she had found herself a job in a hairdresser’s and seemed to enjoy the training.

‘I’m going for a walk,’ she told the two women who sat in silence in the living-room. ‘I won’t be long. Is there anything you want, Lucy?’

Lucy shook her head. It was as if her mother didn’t exist. The bruises were healing, they had not been as bad as they appeared initially, but it was obvious the shock had not yet worn off. When she’s over this, if she ever gets over it, we’ll talk, Gwen decided. For now there was nothing she could do. Any attempt to touch Lucy had been brushed off. There seemed to be no way in which to comfort her. Alone with Jenny, the WPC, Lucy might feel less inhibited and therefore more inclined to talk.

She walked down from the house towards the sea. On the Promenade she punched out Laura
Penfold’s number on her mobile phone, hoping that she would be at home. Unlike Gwen she didn’t have a job, although Gwen had taken the week off from the building society where she worked. ‘Hello, Laura,’ she said with relief. ‘I’ve got a problem, can you spare me a few minutes?’

‘Of course I can. Where are you?’ Laura heard traffic and the sound of the sea sucking at pebbles.

‘Half way to your place.’

‘Then come straight here.’

Laura waited, wondering what had caused her self-contained, capable friend to seek her advice. Since Gwen’s husband had run off with someone else she had found full-time employment and kept the house and family together until the boys had left home. Only Lucy was left. Lucy then, Laura decided as she got out things for coffee in her cramped kitchen in the small, three-bedroomed fisherman’s cottage where she and Trevor had somehow managed to bring up their own three children. It was in a back street with no view other than similar cottages that were, built in close proximity to withstand the winter gales and onslaughts from the sea before the stone barrier was put in place to try to contain it.

‘You look dreadful,’ Laura said when she
opened the door to let Gwen in. ‘Come and sit down and have a coffee.’

‘It’s Lucy,’ she began once Laura had handed her a cup of coffee. ‘I just don’t know what to do, Laura. I can’t find the right things to say.’ She shook her head as she realised her own stupidity. ‘Of course, you don’t know. How could you?’ No one does except us and the police, and him, Gwen was thinking. She took a deep breath. ‘She was raped.’ It was the first time she had acknowledged the deed out loud.

‘Dear God.’ Laura’s face whitened. ‘Poor Lucy. Have they caught the man?’

‘No. And she can’t tell them much.’ And then it all poured out. It was such a relief to tell someone who was not a police officer. ‘She was supposed to be meeting Sam Jago and that’s who I thought she was with. When she didn’t come home by ten-fifteen – ten was the time her father had arranged to phone her and she always made sure she was there for his calls – I rang Joyce. Neither she nor Sam had seen Lucy all day.

‘I didn’t know what to do. I mean, the police wouldn’t have done anything, not right away because she’s seventeen, but I was worried sick.’ Gwen explained how Lucy had arrived home. ‘I rang the police immediately. It was awful, she
had to have tests and things. You’d think she’d been humiliated enough.’

‘It has to be done,’ Laura said gently.

‘I know.’ And for the first time Gwen Chandler began to cry.

‘Please don’t tell anyone,’ she said when she was calmer. ‘It was in the paper on Tuesday and the
Cornishman
’ll carry a report on Thursday, but they’re not allowed to print her name.’

‘Of course I won’t say anything,’ Laura reassured her, feeling much as Gwen did, that there was little she could offer in the way of comfort.

When Gwen had gone, Laura wanted nothing more than to ring Rose. She would not break her word but she, too, needed a friendly ear. But Rose was going to a funeral that afternoon, it would be unfair to burden her with another problem even if she couldn’t say what it was.

The subjects both for the class and her pupils’ homework had been planned. Feeling pleased with some of the photographs she had taken on Monday, Rose decided she had time to show them to Barry and find out which of them he wanted. The old-fashioned bell tinkled as she pushed open the shop door. There was no sign of Barry,
and a woman she had never seen before stood behind the counter serving two German tourists with maps of the area.

‘Can I help you?’ she enquired with a smile as she handed the tourists their change and their goods in a striped paper bag. They now stood to one side looking at postcards.

‘I was hoping to see Barry actually.’

‘Ah, he’s over at Camborne. Is it important?’

‘Not really. Will you tell him Rose called in and ask him to give me a ring? And would you mind giving him these photographs, please?’ She handed over a padded envelope.

‘Of course. Does he have your number?’

‘Yes.’

The woman frowned. ‘You’re not Rose Trevelyan, are you?’

‘I am.’

‘You’re the one who does all the notelets and things. He’s told me about you.’

Has he indeed, Rose thought. But he hasn’t mentioned you. Which was odd, since Barry normally discussed his every move with Rose.

‘You paint as well, I believe.’

‘Yes.’

Another customer had entered the shop. ‘Nice to have met you. I’ll pass on the message.’

‘Thanks.’ Rose said goodbye and squeezed past the Germans who were blocking the doorway.

Barry telephoned not long after she arrived home. ‘I’m still at Camborne,’ he said, ‘but I got your message.’

‘Indeed. So who’s the lady?’

‘Didn’t I tell you?’

‘No, you didn’t, or I wouldn’t be asking.’ She vaguely recalled him mentioning he had taken out an advert in the local paper but hadn’t imagined he would actually take someone on.

‘Her name’s Daphne Hill. I’ve taken her on on a full time basis.’

‘Good for you. It’s about time. Tell me about her.’ Maybe now Barry would find the time for a hobby.

‘She lives somewhere out near Madron, but she’s got a car. Her children have left home and she was bored and wanted a job.’

Rose could understand that. And Barry had been sensible in his choice. Older women tended to be more reliable, more grateful for employment, and with a grown up family there was not the problem of school holidays or sick children to care for. Rose, with her artist’s eye, could have described her exactly; full-figured,
handsome-featured, smartly dressed, short fair hair, make up a little on the heavy side and plenty of costume jewellery. A woman who believed in making an effort to dress well for work. ‘So what’ll you do with your new found freedom?’

‘I haven’t decided yet, well, apart from some decorating, and, if you’re up for it, I could do with some help in choosing new furniture.’

‘I’d love to help. There’s nothing nicer than spending other people’s money. It’ll have to be next week, though.’

‘Next week? Good God woman, I haven’t even picked the paint yet. Next month, more like it.’

‘That’s fine. Look, Barry, I’ll have to go, it’s Phyllis’s funeral this afternoon.’

‘Sorry, I forgot. I’ll speak to you soon and let you know about the photographs.’

Rose glanced at the small carriage clock on the mantlepiece. It was time to change before she went to collect Doreen.

The weather was far from funereal. The sun shone and birds sang in the trees surrounding the graveyard. Their dark coloured clothing was uncomfortably warm as Rose and Doreen walked along the path to the small church. Organ music could be heard from inside. The church was
almost full. Phyllis Brown had lived in the area all her life and had known many people although none had been close friends. Only Doreen had taken pity on the woman who was renowned for her sharp tongue, her amazing organisational skills, her obsessive church attendances before her illness, and her pride. Nathan was illegitimate but Phyllis had given birth to him then held up her head and got on with life, uncaring of what people thought forty years ago – when illegitimacy had been considered shocking and a stigma to both mother and child. As if to make up for her one aberration she had turned to religion and strived for a life of cold, clean purity. She had expected the same of her son who had remained at home with her. When she became ill he did everything for her except the things which required the services of the district nurse. He had given up his job on a farm in order to do so. Rose noticed him at the front of the church, hands clasped between his knees, his head bent. It was unclear whether he was praying or crying.

The coughing and rustling stopped as the coffin-bearers entered and walked slowly down the aisle. They placed the remains of Phyllis Brown on the trestle in front of the altar and left unobtrusively.

Rose joined in the service enjoying listening to the Cornish voices rising and falling as they sang the hymns. She was aware that Nathan’s lips didn’t move, that he seemed to see or hear nothing.

They followed the coffin to the graveside and the clergyman spoke the ritualistic words. Automatically, Nathan picked up a handful of dirt and threw it onto the sturdy coffin which had been lowered into the ground. There was no sign of emotion on his almost unlined face.

He must take after his father, Rose thought, watching him. Phyllis had been tall and thin, her son was short and stocky with the swarthy colouring of a Cornishman whose family went back many generations.

People began to file away. Nathan had left the arrangements to his aunt, Emily, who had not thought to organise food and drink back at the house. In her eighties, coping with the other arrangements and seeing to Nathan had been more than enough for her. Belatedly, she had rung the landlord of the pub nearest to the church and asked if he could provide some sandwiches. ‘I’m going back to Truro tomorrow,’ she told Doreen who had gone over to speak to her and introduce her to Rose. ‘Can you keep an eye on him?’

Nathan stood staring down into the open grave, aware that the grave-diggers were waiting to fill it in. In the peaceful, pretty surroundings it seemed incongruous that a bright yellow bulldozer stood waiting to do the job.

‘Course I will, maid, don’t ’e worry about that. Will he stay on at the house?’

‘Yes. Phyllis owned it. From what I can gather from her papers she’s left everything to him. He’ll be all right.’

Rose, watching him, thought it would be a while before he was. Nathan’s whole body shook and he had not spoken a word to anyone. How must he feel to be on his own after forty years? she wondered. Doreen had told her there were no girlfriends, no friends at all. ‘She won’t let ’im take no one home. Rules ’im with a rod of iron, she does,’ she had once said. ‘He goes along to church of a Sunday but he don’t believe, he only does it to keep her quiet. It’s no life for a man, Rose, take my word for it.’

Would he, now that he had some freedom, make up for the past? Doreen would certainly keep her informed. ‘Nice to have met you, Mrs Davey,’ Rose said. Phyllis’s sister wasn’t showing any signs of grief but the elderly often didn’t, they just took death in their stride knowing that it would soon be their turn.

‘Come back and have some tea if you’re not going to the pub,’ Doreen said. ‘My Cyril will be gladdened to see you.’

‘Just a quick cup. I’ve got my classes tonight.’ Rose was surprised at the sadness she felt. Phyllis may have been a sharp-tongued woman but she had done what she thought was best for her son and, seemingly, had never strayed from the path of virtue after that one mistake which had changed her life.

There wasn’t time to do much more than make a few telephone calls and change into jeans before she left the house again.

In the winter the gallery annexe was draughty but now the evening sun streamed in through the high windows and emphasised the dust motes floating in the air. Despite her sadness at Doreen and Nathan’s loss, the class went smoothly and her star pupil of the moment, Joyce Jago, had brought in an excellent piece of work. It was a general class. Rose taught the basics of various forms of art using different materials, but she took Joyce aside that evening. ‘Look, have you thought about concentrating on abstracts? You’re good, you know. Your use of colour and application of paint is excellent. I can put you in touch with someone who can help you more than I can.’

‘Thanks, Rose, but it’s just for fun. I enjoy your classes.’ Joyce sighed.

Rose was disappointed but she understood not everyone shared her passion. ‘Is anything the matter?’

‘Children. Who’d have them?’

‘Sam?’

‘Yes. She’s so quiet lately and I can’t get her to talk to me. We used to be so close. Her father says it’s her age, but she’s seventeen, Rose, not fourteen. Something’s bothering her, I just wish she’d tell me what it is.’ Joyce was not ready to admit that the police had paid them a visit. A female officer had assured her that Sam wasn’t in trouble, they merely wanted some information from her. Joyce had guessed Lucy was somehow involved but Sam was not prepared to discuss it.