Killed in Cornwall (6 page)

‘No, I don’t, Eva. Sorry. But I’ll ask around.’ She could see that that sort of job would suit her and she’d probably be very good with the customers. The men would certainly appreciate seeing her behind the counter.

‘I’ll get started. Come on, Eva, you can watch me.’ It was a tactful way of letting her know that Rose probably had things to do.

‘Shall I wash the mugs?’

Rose suspected the offer was made because she wanted to talk. ‘No, leave them, Eva. In fact,
let’s have another coffee then I’ll go and do some work.’

But Rose did not discover what was on Eva’s mind. Once or twice Eva glanced out of the window as if to make sure Dave hadn’t gone, although with the constant whine of the chainsaw it was obvious he was still there. ‘Were you married, Eva?’

‘No. I lived with John for four years. Usual story. It was fine at first. It took me some time to realise that he was a bully, only mentally initially. I couldn’t do anything right in his eyes. Once he started hitting me I knew I had to get out. He never injured me enough to need to see a doctor but I knew it would only be a matter of time. I more or less left everything behind and came down here.’

‘You’re surely not afraid Dave’s like that.’ I’ve gone too far, Rose realised as a fleeting expression of panic clouded Eva’s lovely face.

‘Of course not.’

What’s worrying her then? Rose asked herself knowing she could not ask Eva.

‘Is Dave coming here again?’

‘I don’t know. It depends how much he gets done today. Well, I have a few things I need to do …’

‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to detain you. I’ll go and sit outside. It’s a wonderful view.’

‘I know. There isn’t a day when I don’t appreciate it.’ Rose put the mugs in the sink and went up to the attic. Mixing the pale purple watercolour for the vetch she decided Eva’s problem was not her concern. It was highly unlikely she would see the girl again.

Helen Trehearne had been interviewed on Sunday and again on Monday morning. She had straight fair hair, a shapely figure, an interesting rather than pretty face and came across as older than her age. ‘I was walking the dog around Ryan’s Field Lagoon,’ she had said. ‘It was about eight when I left home. I’d let Ben off his lead and he’d gone some distance ahead. I didn’t see or hear anything, I had no idea there was anyone else around. And then, just as I was under the flyover, a man grabbed me from behind. He pushed me to the ground, face down. I screamed and Ben came running back barking like mad. I struggled and bit the man’s hand but Ben must’ve scared him because he ran off. I never saw his face.’

The lagoon was man-made. It was on the opposite side of the road from Lelant Water on the outskirts of Hayle. Both places attracted
bird-watchers. Behind the lagoon was a hide. It was likely that the man had hidden in it. Maybe not hidden, Jack thought, maybe he was a genuine bird-watcher who happened to see Helen and take his chance. And he’s injured. Someone would notice that, surely. ‘How old would you say he was?’

‘I’m not sure. He felt heavy and his hands looked like those of an older man. Thirty, or forty, maybe.’

To Helen that would seem old. I must seem ancient to her, Jack thought. ‘Any idea what he was wearing?’

‘Yes. Jeans and a short-sleeved beige shirt. I didn’t notice his shoes and I only saw him from the back when he ran away, but his hair was dark and cut short.’

A description that could fit half the male population of Cornwall. ‘What happened next?’

Helen shrugged. ‘I should’ve let Ben run after him but I was terrified. I couldn’t stop shaking. I put Ben back on the lead and went home. Mum phoned you right away’

Jack asked a few more questions but the one he wanted to ask,
do you know Lucy Chandler?
, had to remain unspoken for the moment. Her name could not be revealed and the two
incidents might not be connected. One had taken place outside Penzance, the other in Hayle, and Helen had received no injuries. But the dog had probably prevented that. Both she and the family refused counselling which, in Jack’s opinion was sensible as it could often make matters worse. Helen promised to get in touch if she remembered anything new. Detective Inspector Jack Pearce prayed there would be no more similar incidents.

By Tuesday they were no further forward. Jack’s head began to ache. A break might allow him to think more clearly. I’ll go and see Rose, he thought, deciding not to telephone first in case she found an excuse to put him off. Turning up unannounced, he would at least have the pleasure of her company for a few minutes, assuming she was at home. He glanced out of the window surprised to note that the sun was still shining. He stood, grabbed his jacket from the back of his chair, checked his pocket for wallet and keys and left the building.

He started the car and headed towards Penzance. The fields on one side of the road were now in shadow as the angle between the sun and the earth was reduced but sunlight danced on the hills to his right. Clouds were gathering, not rainclouds, but large white ones which were
swept along by the increasing wind until they disappeared over the horizon to be replaced by others. The long grasses in the verges swayed.

He reached Rose’s house and pulled into the drive, relieved to see her car was there but aware of how often she went about on foot. But when the kitchen door opened and he saw her standing there he smiled with relief. ‘May I come in?’

‘Of course you can. I was just about to …’ She stopped. Bugger it, she thought, why do I always feel the need to apologise?

Jack grinned. ‘Open some wine? I was hoping you might say that.’ He looked at his watch ostentatiously. ‘A little late for you, isn’t it?’

‘I’ve been busy.’

‘Don’t snap. Where’s the corkscrew?’

Rose pulled open a drawer and handed it to him. With one swift tug the cork came out of the bottle. She got out a second glass and poured them both drinks. It was her daily ritual when she was at home; work, a glass of wine as she cooked her evening meal, then another with it. ‘I thought you were busy, too.’

‘Rose?’ He took a sip of the deep pink, almost red wine. ‘It’s lovely and dry.’

‘It’s Italian. I thought I’d give it a try.’

‘We are busy. I needed to get away for a while.’

‘I heard about the rape. Any idea who did it?’

‘No. And now another girl’s been attacked.’

‘Oh, Jack.’ Rose sat down and reached for his hand. For such a big, handsome man he looked momentarily vulnerable and despondent. ‘Why don’t you stay and have supper with me?’

‘I’d like nothing more. Now tell me about the exhibition, I haven’t had a chance to ask you about it.’

Rose did so, talking as she cooked, moving about the kitchen which was so familiar to her and bringing him up to date. ‘Did you notice the garden?’

‘No.’

‘Go and have a look. It’s so much lighter upstairs already. Dave said one more session will do it.’

‘Very tidy,’ Jack commented when he returned a minute or so later to find Rose adding capers to some fillets of fish already lying in a baking tin. She squeezed on lemon juice, added salt and pepper and placed the dish in the oven.

‘Jack?’ She turned to face him.

Arms folded, he stood in the doorway observing her. She was so petite she appeared delicate, although Jack knew better. She leant against the worktop, a checked shirt half in, half
out of the waistband of her denim skirt, her bare legs already brown from the sun and her auburn hair falling out of the band which held it back from her face. ‘Yes?’ He knew something was coming, something he was sure he didn’t want to hear.

‘It’s about these attacks. I swear I won’t say anything to anyone else, but I know the name of the first girl.’

Oh, God, he thought. Not again. Please don’t let Rose become involved. But he guessed it was already too late to prevent it.

‘She’s the best friend of the daughter of one of my students.’ She did not mention Laura had given away Lucy’s name.

The Jago girl had been questioned. She was supposed to have been meeting Lucy Chandler but Lucy had rung to cancel and asked her not to say anything as she was meeting her boyfriend. This seemed to confirm that the man was married. Jack knew that Rose taught Joyce Jago because she had mentioned how good she was.

‘Joyce is worried about Sam, she asked if I’d have a word with her.’ That was almost a week ago, Rose had been so busy she’d forgotten until now.

‘She would ask you.’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘Nothing, Rose. I’m sorry.’ Everyone seemed happy to confide in Rose or to ask her to help sort out their problems.

‘Does the name Helen Trehearne mean anything to you?’

Rose chewed her lip. She was aware that Jack had given her the name of the second girl. It was intentional and she knew he trusted her not to repeat it. She shook her head. ‘Was she badly hurt?’

‘No. She had a dog with her and managed to get away.’

‘And neither of them can identify him?’

‘No, but they both claim it wasn’t anyone they knew. I know,’ Jack held up his hands. ‘How can they know that if they can’t identify him? But it’s clear what they mean. And we don’t even know if it is one person. Let’s drop it, Rose, I’ve had enough for one day. It’s ages since I’ve seen you, tell me what else you’ve been up to?’

‘The usual. Photography, sketching, the odd spot of housework, then this morning Dave came. He brought Eva with him and that put me behind even further.’

‘Eva?’

‘His girlfriend. She comes from Devon. Dave moved down from Derbyshire after his marriage broke up. It’s odd, he obviously cares for her a great deal and I share Doreen’s opinion, he’s a decent man, but I got the feeling Eva doesn’t trust him.’

‘For heaven’s sake, Rose, don’t get involved in something that doesn’t concern you.’

‘Hardly involved, Jack. He’ll only be coming back once more and then I’ll probably never see either of them again. I just hope they’ll be happy. At least he doesn’t nag her.’

‘Meaning what?’

‘Meaning the way you nag me.’

‘The last thing I need is a row.’

‘I was making a justifiable comment not trying to start an argument.’

‘Look, it might be better if I left.’

Rose reached for the wine bottle. Jack was tired and frustrated, she ought to have trodden more carefully. ‘Don’t go. I want you to stay,’ she said quietly. ‘Besides, I can’t eat all that fish myself.’

Jack put his head in his hands. She had said something nice, something he wanted to hear and then she had to go and make a joke.

Over the meal the tension eased and they
talked of other things; local gossip, local news and mutual friends, including Laura with whom Jack had gone to school, but not Laura’s friendship with Gwen Chandler.

When Rose mentioned that Barry had taken on Daphne Hill full-time, Jack had relaxed enough to laugh. ‘I shouldn’t laugh but what on earth’s he going to do with himself?’

‘Decorate the flat for a start, then I’m helping him choose some furniture.’

Jack raised his eyebrows. ‘Changes, indeed. I had a drink with him the other evening. He’s certainly smartened himself up a bit lately. All for the lovely Daphne, do you suppose?’

‘No. It’s nothing like that.’ Soon she would be meeting Daphne’s husband. She would not mention his past to Jack, it was unfair to the man and there was always the possibility that the local police already knew about it. In which case, she thought, they might also be making enquiries as to his whereabouts at the times when the two incidents occurred.

‘It’s a shame he can’t find someone. He’s a decent man, Rose, and there aren’t that many around.’

She frowned, puzzled, until she realised Jack was referring to Barry, not Rod Hill. ‘I know. I
wish he’d find something to do that he enjoyed, other than work. But at least he’s made a start.’

Rose washed up whilst Jack made coffee. The wind that had rattled the kitchen door had dropped. It was not yet dark, the summer solstice was only days away and because they were so far west light remained in the sky until almost eleven.

They took their coffee through to the
sitting-room
and watched the lights come on in the villages scattered along the coastline. The dusk deepened and turned the sea an inky purple. ‘Bad weather to come?’ Jack nodded in the direction of two large tankers and a light-ship moored in the bay. Beyond them was the silver bulk of a naval vessel, too small for a frigate but too far away to make out what it was.

‘I don’t know. It’s pretty calm at the moment.’ But seamen knew. During winter storms and summer ones there could be half a dozen or more large ships anchored in the bay, tossing, and turning but sheltered from the raging seas beyond it. ‘Fancy a brandy?’ She got up to pour it, thinking of Dave and Eva again. To run off like that, Eva must have been through a lot. And so has Daphne Hill, she reminded herself. Yes, it would be interesting to meet
the husband. ‘You won’t be able to drive home now,’ she said, handing Jack a cut-glass brandy balloon.

Jack grinned, deliberately boyish. ‘I know, but I was hoping I wouldn’t be going home, that I might be allowed to stay.’

Rose grinned back. He took that as a sign of assent.

Eva had been to the job centre and explained her circumstances but they had nothing to offer her. Work in the catering industry was hard to come by in the winter but in the summer, when it was plentiful, vacancies were filled as soon as they were advertised because young men and women were willing to travel from all parts of the country just to be in Cornwall for the season. ‘I’ll come back next week,’ Eva told them, realising she might be better off looking through the adverts in the local papers.

On Wednesday she caught the bus into Penzance and started asking in various pubs if they needed any help. It was raining hard. With
the drop in temperature it was difficult to believe it was summer. The hem of Eva’s skirt was damp as it swung around her legs as she made her way through Morrab Gardens, disappointed that she had had no luck. She could not rely on Dave’s generosity for much longer.

Despite the rain, she lingered by the fountain watching a grey wagtail who, in return, watched her. It’s too good to be true, she thought, things like this just don’t happen to me. Her life had been hard and she had followed the route of many. From a violent family she had moved in with a violent man but she had finally had the sense to leave him. And Dave, was he too good to be true? Where had he been on Sunday night when that girl was raped? Why wouldn’t he tell her when she had asked him? There had been a closeness between them right from the start, his secrecy was out of character. He’s passionate, I know that, but I can’t imagine him hurting me. But maybe that was different, maybe he got his kicks in some other way. She hated herself for her doubts because she realised they were probably unfounded. If only I knew where he was I’d stop worrying. It was her background that made her suspicious, she decided. Apart from her brother the men that were closest to her had always been
trouble. She did not know about the second, abortive attack.

It was peaceful in the gardens but too wet and cold to remain there any longer. She made her way down to the seafront and walked back towards the bus station. The sound of the sea, rushing shorewards on a high swell, soothed her. Dave might be at the caravan when she returned, unless he had found some indoor work. She would cook something special and try once more to find out where he had been on Sunday night.

There was no question of working outside. Rain was sweeping across the bay and running down the drive. The gutters were over-flowing, large drops of water splashed to the ground outside the window. White capped waves were beginning to form, a sign that the weather was worsening. She wondered if Dave would turn up after all. He had telephoned the previous evening to ask if it was possible to come and finish the job in the morning instead of the following week because he had been offered a week’s work which he didn’t want to lose. Rose had no objections; the sooner the rest of those overhanging branches were gone, the better. The van pulled into the drive. Rose heard the engine from the shed where
she was stretching and preparing canvases with an old cardigan around her shoulders to keep out the chill. Although she had cleared the shed the previous year an accumulation of junk had built up again.

Dave jumped out of the driver’s seat and shook his head as he glanced at the sky. Low, grey cloud was massed as far as the eye could see. There would be no let up that day.

‘I’m surprised you came,’ Rose said as she stood in the doorway of the shed out of the rain.

‘There isn’t much more to do and it’s quite sheltered back there. And I’ve brought a petrol driven saw.’

Rose nodded. With the back of the house on one side and the granite cliff the other he wouldn’t get too wet. ‘Tea or coffee?’

‘Neither, thanks. I want to get done quickly as possible, I’ve a few other things to do before I can start the job in Penzance.’

‘What about your regulars?’ Rose asked as he lifted his tools from the back of the can.

‘I’ve worked it out. I can still manage to fit them in, especially now that the days are so long.’

Within minutes the noise of the saw shattered the peace of the morning. Rose went back to the shed.

Stacked against one wall were several canvases which had been blocked in. One, which had received more work than the others, showed a square built church on a bleak, gorse covered hillside and a scattering of granite cottages below it. Finishing it would be her next project.

The sound of sawing finally stopped. Dave appeared from around the back of the house wheeling a barrow full of logs. He had promised to clear away all the rubbish but Rose had said she would keep the wood to burn in the winter. He stacked the logs on top of some others already piled at the side of the shed. ‘It’s all done. Want to take a look?’

She did so, thanking him for what he had done. She paid him and wished him and Eva well for the future. Dave got into the van, started the engine and reversed down the drive. Rose stood watching him and waved when he reached the bottom.

Something’s wrong, she thought as she went upstairs to get a warm jacket, he looks worried. But for the moment Doreen took priority. It was a week since Phyllis Brown’s funeral and Rose knew that this would be the hardest time for Doreen, when the reality hit her. Apart from weekends, Wednesday afternoon was the only
time Doreen was not out cleaning. Rose had rung to make sure she’d be in.

‘Come on over as soon as you can, maid,’ Doreen had said. ‘I’m in need of a bit of company.’

It was just after two when Rose arrived. Since the day they had married, Doreen and Cyril had lived routine lives, or as routinely as possible when Cyril worked shifts in the mine. Since his retirement the pattern of their lives had become more rigid. ‘It’s the only way I can keep on top of things,’ Doreen had told Rose although Rose suspected that the strict timetable somehow compensated them both for Cyril’s redundancy and the loss of pride he had suffered when no other work was available. On Wednesdays they sat down to a cooked meal at twelve thirty, a meal which Cyril had prepared in her absence. It had taken him a long time to accept that now he was not the bread-winner he ought to help around the house. He had finally learnt to serve up meat and vegetables as expertly cooked as those which his wife had always prepared.

Rose parked in the road and pushed open the gate at the front of the bungalow. The small front garden contained a blaze of flowers which had benefitted from the rain and exuded a mixture of scents. She walked around to the back door and
tapped on the glass. Behind her Cyril’s vegetables stood in military rows. The runner beans, attached to poles, had a mass of red flowers and some of the beans were already forming.

‘Come in out of that rain, Rose. You can’t tell from one minute to the other what it’ll do next.’

Rose took off her jacket and shook it. Doreen hung it on a hook on the door. The kitchen was warm and smelt of pork but there was no sign of any dishes. The fittings were old-fashioned but every surface was clear and still damp from Doreen’s dishcloth. Seated at the kitchen table, Cyril was half-hidden behind a newspaper. Opposite him sat Nathan Brown.

‘We made ’en a bit of dinner,’ Doreen explained.

‘Nice to see you, Rose, you’re looking as good as ever.’ Cyril put down the paper, pleased by her company. He had never known what to say to Nathan. ‘I expect Doreen’s about to put the kettle on?’ He smiled at his wife.

‘You know perfectly well I always do that, Cyril, there’s no need to be showing me up. Sit down, Rose.’

It always surprised Rose when she saw Cyril without his cap. He looked years younger when his still thick hair was on display. ‘How are things with you, Nathan?’

‘I dunno. I can’t get used to ’er not being there.’

‘It takes time. It’s only a week.’

‘You listen to Rose. She do know, she lost her man,’ Doreen said as she got out tea cups.

‘I heard you’re staying on at the house. Won’t you find it a bit big?’ It was, like many older houses in the area, built of granite. It stood in a terrace and was reached by a short flight of steps from the pavement and a path with steeply sloping lawns on either side of it. There were three bedrooms, a large front room and a dining-room. In Nathan’s situation she would have found somewhere smaller and cosier and easily manageable. But when David died I knew I could never leave my house, Rose recalled. Perhaps Nathan felt the same way.

‘I’ll manage. Doreen says I ought to get someone in to do for me but I don’t know as I can afford it yet. The lawyer’s going to have a word with me next week.’

‘Don’t take on, Nathan. The house is paid for, it’s yours now and there’s a bit of money put by. You won’t starve, take it from me. Besides, you’re free to find work now. Why don’t you see if they need you back at the farm?’

Rose was aware that Nathan had received a
small benefit payment as a full time carer. That would have stopped with Phyllis’s death. She had no idea of his financial situation although Doreen seemed to. She hid a smile. There was little information to which Doreen wasn’t privy, no matter how private it was supposed to be.

‘Take my advice, Nathan, start looking right away. It’ll give you something to do and take your mind off your mum.

‘He’s not been hisself at all,’ she added turning to Rose as if the forty-year-old man was no more than a child.

And nor have you, Rose thought, catching the fleeting expression of pain which crossed Doreen’s face. She couldn’t make Nathan out. Despite his recent bereavement there was an expression of quiet determination on his face. Doreen seemed to be worrying unnecessarily. But it was early days, a time of numbness; there would be worse to come. She did not suggest that he saw a doctor as she had done after David died. After ten days and at Laura’s insistence, Rose had succumbed and seen her GP. She had tried to drown her sorrow in wine but it had only exacerbated it. Nathan, loner that he was, would come to terms with his loss in his own way.

Rose accepted the tea Doreen handed her. It
was dark and strong and had been made with loose leaves. Nathan sipped his tea with his right hand, his left was resting on his knees. Had there been a woman, Rose thought, or even some friends, it might have been different but Nathan Brown had spent all of his forty years devoted to his mother, a hard task-master from what Doreen had told her. What a gap it must have left in his life. I’m here to comfort Doreen, not Nathan, she reminded herself. But he had worn well and looked several years younger than the forty he had already lived. ‘The fête went off well, how much money did it make?’

‘Just
over
a thousand pounds. There’ll be a report in the
Cornishman
tomorrow.’ Doreen’s pride was obvious. She deserved to feel proud, she had put much work into it.

‘That’s an awful lot of money.’

‘I know, but we were selling raffle tickets beforehand and we had some very generous prizes donated, including a day trip to the Scillies for two on the boat. Terrible about that poor girl, wasn’t it? Has Jack said anything to you?’

‘No, not really.’

‘I know, you can’t talk about it. I just hope they catch ’en. Rape. I ask you, no one’s safe any
more. And I’ll tell you what, I’ve heard a rumour that someone from round here was attacked, another girl. Helen Trehearne I believe her name is.’

‘Doreen.’ Cyril glared at his wife. It might not be true and he did not like to hear such gossip.

So Doreen also knew. That was the name Jack had mentioned. ‘What makes you say that?’

‘I know the Trehearnes. Good family. And Helen’s a good girl, not like some of them nowadays. The police were outside her house the other day and she hasn’t been at school this week. That Helen’s a strong maid, she won’t hide her head in shame and keep it a secret. I know I’m not far out, not if what her mother told Mrs Freeman is true.’

Cyril shook his head. There was no stopping Doreen. ‘Shall we have some more tea? Nathan, another cup for you?’

‘No. I’d best be off.’ He stood, his hands in his jacket pocket. He seemed to be trembling. ‘Nice bit of dinner, thanks’ he said as Doreen let him out of the back door.

‘I can’t imagine what’ll become of that one,’ Doreen commented when he had gone. ‘He don’t make no effort, that’s his trouble. Always relied on Phyllis, you see. That’s why he needs
a job, without her to tell ’im what to do he’ll be lost.

‘Cyril, I do believe it’s stopped raining.’

Cyril peered out of the window. ‘I think you’re right. I might as well tidy the beans.’

To Rose the garden looked immaculate but the Clarkes had their own way of doing things. Doreen wanted him out of the way and Cyril was more than pleased to be so.

‘Now, tell us what you know,’ Doreen said as she leant on the table, her chin in her hands.

But Rose could not break her promise to Jack. As much as she liked Doreen and valued her as a friend she knew that anything she said would be repeated. Instead she turned the conversation to Phyllis and learnt a little more about the woman’s personality.

No wonder Nathan’s like he is, she thought as she drove home beneath the grey sky. The rain had stopped but the roads were still wet. It was a respite, no more than that, it would rain again later.

Before she reached Newlyn she had thought of a way in which she might be able to speak to Samantha Jago without arousing her suspicions. Rose rang her at five and was rewarded by an affirmative reply to her request.

It was dry when she left the house although she could smell the damp soil, and droplets of water still glistened on the grass. The earlier rain had cleared the air, it was fresh and heady as she made her way along the Promenade before turning off for the gallery where Samantha Jago was waiting outside. ‘My goodness, you’re keen.’ Rose had not been certain she would turn up.

‘Am I dressed all right?’ Sam was wearing a long, black skirt, clumpy shoes and a top which left an inch of midriff exposed.