Killed in Cornwall (7 page)

‘Of course. It’s only your face they’ll be interested in.’ Over the telephone Rose had asked Sam if she would be prepared to model for the class, head and shoulders only, in return for a small fee. The girl had great bone structure.

‘I feel embarrassed already.’

‘Well, don’t. You’ll be fine.’ Rose unlocked the door. ‘Come on, we’ve got time for a cup of tea before the others arrive.’ She plugged in the kettle and dropped teabags into two chipped mugs. ‘Your mum seems a bit worried about you, Sam. Is everything all right?’

Sam reddened. ‘Not really. I think one of my friend’s is in trouble. The police came to see me
but I’m not sure why and Lucy won’t return my calls. We’ve been friends since infants’ school and it hurts that she’s dropped me for Jason Evans.’

‘Surely things aren’t that bad?’ Rose was referring to the friendship, Sam obviously didn’t know what had happened to Lucy.

‘They are to me. Nobody understands.’

Rose sighed. How much the young took for granted. They assumed they were the only ones who could love or be hurt or even have a sex life. ‘What else is bothering you, Sam?’

‘Will you promise you won’t say anything?’

‘You have my word.’

‘I think Lucy’s been raped. No one’s said as much but I read that report in the paper. I was supposed to be with Lucy at the time. Anyway, after the police came and she wouldn’t speak to me it just seemed to add up. I wish I could help her in some way.’ She bowed her head. ‘I think she lied to me. She said she was meeting Jason and that she was using me as an excuse because her mother doesn’t like him. It just seems so feeble now.’

It struck Rose as odd, too. Surely no seventeen-year-old who earned her own living needed a friend to cover for her.

‘What time do we start?’ Sam had heard voices in the hall.

‘Almost immediately. Come with me and I’ll explain what I want you to do.’

Rose led her into the large studio and began arranging the stacked seats into a semi-circle. In front of them she placed easels then decided where best to seat the girl.

Sam turned out to be a good model. Perhaps her preoccupation enabled her to sit for the first hour with hardly, a movement, her profile to the class as they quietly drew it. Rose, from a different perspective, sketched her three-quarter face. ‘Okay, I think that’s long enough. We’ll take a break now.’ They always stopped for coffee half way through the class.

The silent concentration was broken. Chairs scraped and conversations broke out as people began comparing their work.

‘Thank you, Sam. We all appreciate your sitting for us. Do you want to stay until the end or would you rather leave?’

‘I’ll go if you don’t need me any more.’

Rose took her to one side and pushed a ten pound note into her hand. It had been worth it. Rose had enjoyed sketching her and she had found out as much as she wanted to know.

‘Right, let me see what you’ve done this evening then I’ll look at what you’ve managed at home this week.’

No one had quite captured the essence of Sam although Joyce had managed to portray the wistfulness in her face. It had been a worthwhile exercise, one conducted with only herself and Joyce knowing the reason behind it.

When the class finished, she put Joyce’s mind at rest by telling her that Sam was upset because Lucy seemed to favour her boyfriend’s company over her own. She made no mention of the rape.

Satisfied, Dave Fox pushed his plate away. Eva had cooked a delicious meal. She had told him how unsuccessful she had been in finding work and he’d tried to reassure her that something would eventually turn up. ‘Don’t worry about the money, Eva. Living as we do we don’t spend much. Better you get a job you enjoy rather than taking one for the sake of it.’ He smiled and reached for her hand. ‘Don’t look so glum. You’re a winner, you know, you’ll get there in the end. Look what you’ve survived already.’

Eva felt near to tears. Never had she thought she could be so happy with a man but there was a
shadow hanging over it all. ‘Dave, please tell me where you were on that Sunday night.’

‘Why is it so important to you?’

She pulled her hand away. Surely he must have some idea why she kept asking him. ‘I just need to know, that’s all. I thought we’d agreed never to have any secrets. I’ve told you all there is to know about me, about my family and John.’

‘Likewise.’

Eva nodded. Dave had explained that his marriage had gone wrong because his wife was more of a socialite than he was. ‘Unlike me, Sarah was into dinner parties and attending all the local functions where the same crowd of people gathered,’ he had admitted. ‘She was always wanting me to better myself, whatever that might mean. Nothing I did pleased her. I’d had it. I suddenly realised that freedom was more important than appearances. I bought the van and came down here and gave her a divorce. And do you know it’s the first time since childhood I’ve really felt happy. Strange when money once meant something to me. And now I’ve got you.’

But Eva had never met any of his family. She only had Dave’s word that his reasons for leaving were as he had told her. Maybe there
was something far more sinister behind his move to Cornwall. Damn him, she thought, damn him for making me feel like this. One simple question. If she had the answer she knew she would be either truly happy or completely devastated.

The persistent double ringing finally penetrated Jack’s consciousness. Wondering if he had overslept and someone was phoning from work to find out where he was he reached out and picked up the receiver. There was no sunlight to give him an approximation of the time, only the steady hiss of rain as it fell onto the paving stones of the small patio area outside his bedroom window. ‘Hello?’ He half sat up. His alarm clock told him it was ten minutes to seven. In another ten minutes it would have woken him. He depressed the button to prevent it going off and listened to the news he hoped he would never hear. If gloomy daylight had not penetrated the bedroom curtains he would have believed it to be a nightmare. ‘I’ll be there as soon as possible.’ He replaced the receiver.

With no time for coffee, Jack showered and shaved quickly, threw on the clothes he had worn the previous day and went out to the car. Rain
pounded metallically on its roof and rivulets of water ran down the road, nestling into the kerbs before disappearing into drains. Ahead the sea was a turbulent green. Don’t let it be true, he thought as he started the engine, knowing that it had to be.

Belinda Greenwood was short and plump with grey hair cut like a man’s. She was in her seventies and lived alone. Jack studied her. Had she been born some decades later she might well have lived openly with another female. As it was, her dog, truffle, was her only companion. Winter or summer, no matter what the weather, she walked him several miles in the morning and another mile at night. Jack’s eyes dropped to the large animal sitting obediently at her feet. It looked too old for such exercise, but so did its mistress.

Jack had driven straight to the scene of the crime and witnessed, second-hand, what Belinda Greenwood had come across when she was walking her dog at six-thirty that morning. The body of Nichola Rolland lay sprawled amongst the sand dunes, patches of fine sand adhered to her saturated clothes. She was fully dressed from the waist upwards; T-shirt, short, tight fitting mock leopard-skin jacket, earrings and a
necklace. Below the waist she was naked. Her canvas shoes, skirt and knickers were scattered to one side of her. The attack had been frenzied, she’d hardly had time to struggle. The marks around her neck showed she had been strangled and the Home Office pathologist’s initial examination showed she had been raped, or had had sexual intercourse not long before she died. But Nichola Rolland lay on her back, she would have been able to see her attacker which may have been the reason he had killed her. Unless his needs were escalating. The thought made Jack feel sick.

Belinda Greenwood seemed almost unmoved by what she had come across on her morning walk, but the older generation never ceased to amaze Jack. Perhaps having lived through a world war and surviving hardships the younger generation couldn’t begin to imagine had something to do with it, but people of her age rarely showed the ridiculous excesses of emotion displayed by young men and women who had never suffered at all.

‘I always leave the house at six-fifteen,’ Belinda said. ‘Truffle doesn’t like his routine to be upset. We don’t always go the same way, I like to vary my route.’ They had walked along the shoreline
then turned inland and up through the dunes. There, hidden amongst the sand and clumps of marram grass, she had spotted the girl’s naked limbs. ‘It was obvious she was dead. I felt her pulse, just in case, but other than that I didn’t touch her or move anything. I went straight back home and telephoned you.’

Jack nodded his thanks. The woman had done the right thing. He had been contacted as soon as her call had come in. Belinda Greenwood had taken the officers who called at her house straight back to where she had found the body. Nichola Rolland had not been robbed. Her handbag was close by, there was money in her purse. The pathologist had been vague as to the time of death because no one knew when it had started raining again and the weather made all the difference. The more detailed examination which was to come would tell them more. But what, Jack thought, had she been doing out so early? Or had she been killed the night before? If it was the latter, why had no one reported her missing? He answered the question himself. Nichola’s driving licence showed she was eighteen. She might live alone, or if she still lived at home her parents probably realised the police would do nothing because she was no longer a
minor. But surely someone would have worried; after all, there had been two other cases. Not for one minute did Jack believe that Belinda Greenwood had murdered the girl but she still had to be questioned. They certainly needed a quick solution now. And they needed to know if the three crimes had been committed by the same person.

Back at the station Belinda Greenwood answered the relentless questions calmly and intelligently. At half-past two an officer drove her home.

The attack on Helen Trehearne had been reported in the local paper but the murder of Nichola Rolland was not yet public knowledge, not as far as the media was concerned. For the population of Hayle it was a different matter. Miss Belinda Greenwood had given her word she would not talk to anyone about what she had seen, and she kept it. But who, in an area where the presence of a police car was a rare occurrence, could fail to notice the presence of several – all heading in the same direction? It did not take long for word to spread that something serious had happened. ‘The Towans, that’s where they’re heading.’ This information was passed from person to person,
the early risers who were out and about by seven o’clock. By the time the shops opened there were few who had not heard the news. The general consensus was that someone was dead.

Immediately after breakfast, Doreen rang Rose to pass on the information. ‘Cyril popped down for ’is paper, just like he always does and he heard it in the shop. Of course, we don’t know for certain but he was told there were about ten cars heading out that way.’

Rose knew that the latter comment was an exaggeration, maybe the former was, too, maybe a chalet had been broken into. Jack had said they still hadn’t caught whoever it was burgling properties in the area.

‘You don’t sound shocked, maid.’

‘Well, Doreen, as you said, nothing’s certain yet. No doubt we’ll hear about it later on the radio.’ She sincerely hoped that her friend was wrong.

Disappointed at the reception of her news, Doreen hung up. She would discuss it with Mrs Patterson whose house she was due to clean that morning.

Daphne Hill said goodbye to Barry, took the car keys from her bag and unlocked the sensible saloon which was parked in the lane behind the shop.

She drove home carefully to what had once been a farmhouse. When the last but one owner had died, his son, who lived out of the county and who had no intention of ever living in it, had come down and sold off the land in parcels before having the house renovated and selling that too. The land now belonged to neighbouring farms and was still in use, therefore they had no near neighbours. For this Daphne and Rod were grateful. They had had enough of neighbours to last them both a lifetime. Had they not moved, the scandal was something they would never have been able to live down. They had chosen Cornwall as a place where it was unlikely anyone had heard of them. Even now, even though no one had been able to make the charges stick, Daphne occasionally had niggling doubts about her husband’s innocence and despised herself for doing so.

The wooden gate stood open, they never bothered to close it. Daphne turned into the drive and pulled up close to the space where Rod usually parked his motorbike, an acquisition he had always wanted and purchased just after the move. It wasn’t there. Just as she was putting her key in the lock of the front door she heard its engine.

‘I thought I’d be home before you,’ Rod said without a trace of guilt as he dismounted. He removed his helmet and bent to kiss her cheek. ‘I forgot about the wine until just now.’ He reached into the plastic box at the back of his bike and took out three bottles of wine carefully wrapped in tissue paper then turned and smiled. ‘The job seems to be doing you good, love. You look really well again.’

‘You really don’t mind about it?’

‘Of course not. Do you know you’re a different person already?’

‘It is doing me good.’ It gave her a reason to dress up and put on make-up and it got her away from the house where their children had never lived, had never even visited, and where she tended to find needless housework to occupy her.

Rod hung his leather jacket in the cupboard under the stairs and Daphne went out to the large kitchen, beautifully modernised by the builders the farmer’s son had employed. In her lunch hour she had bought some crisps and peanuts and a few other bits to put in dishes. They would eat properly later, after their guests had gone. Next year there would be vegetables from the garden Rod had laid out in the patch of land which came with the house. As she carried the bowls through
to the lounge she wondered if Rod was behaving oddly lately or whether it was her imagination. Perhaps, despite what he said, he didn’t like her working. Maybe he was missing her during the day, possibly he was jealous that she had found employment. She also wondered where he had been that afternoon, why it had taken him all day to remember to buy the wine. She could have done so herself, she had the car, but Rod had volunteered. ‘I hope we’ve got enough shorts in the cupboard.’

‘We have. I’ve checked, and mixers. But one of them’ll be driving so I shouldn’t worry about running out.’

Daphne and Rod were the same age but he had worn better. He was stocky but there was no fat on him, his hair was still thick and he had a lopsided, boyish grin which appeared between his neatly trimmed moustache and beard. Daphne took care of herself but she knew there were times when she looked older than him. Which was why she never allowed herself to take him for granted.

Rod had opened the red wine, the white was in the fridge. Money was tight, but not unbearably so. Rod had wisely invested in pension schemes and the farmhouse had cost less than the amount they had sold the house
in Somerset for. And now there were her wages which she intended to save to pay for luxuries. ‘Are you happy here?’ Daphne asked as she folded some paper napkins.

‘More than I expected to be. I thought I’d miss work and our friends.’ He stopped. No, not friends, not one of them had stuck by them. In the end, without exception, they had been prepared to believe the worst or had acted on the basis that mud sticks. ‘It’s surprising how much you can find to do.’ He laughed. ‘I would never have pictured myself digging trenches and planting shrubs.’

‘Me neither. And you’re certain you don’t mind about my job?’

‘Positive.’

Rod would never go back to teaching again and, even if he tried his hand at something different, at fifty-one he would probably be considered to be too old to be employable. It was such a waste when people who had reached that age had a wealth of experience behind them.

‘Shall we go for a run in the car tomorrow if it’s fine?’

‘Yes, I’d like that. How about Looe, we haven’t been there yet?’ There were still so many lovely places left to visit. The beauty of their
surroundings went some way towards making up for what they had lost.

‘Good idea. I believe it’s jam-packed in the height of the season, now’s the best time to see it.’ Rod was pleased that Daphne had a weekday off to compensate for the Saturdays she would be working. It meant they could visit places when they were less busy. ‘I heard a car. That must be them.’ Rod turned to his wife. He knew why the invitation had been issued. Daphne had told Barry Rowe about his past and she wanted to prove that he wasn’t some sort of perverted monster. He reached out and held her arm as she started to walk out of the room. ‘You do believe me, don’t you, rather than what that girl said was supposed to have happened?’

Daphne nodded but she did not stop walking. Rod let go of her arm.

Rose watched the wild tossing of the sea through a curtain of rain. A summer storm, no unusual thing, and they were frequently followed by warm, dry weather. It had been building up to this for days. The waves rolled in relentlessly. In another hour they would be splashing over the Promenade, the road might even be closed.

Not expecting any visitors, she didn’t bother
to dress. She made coffee and watched the yucca at the side of the garden as all three trunks of the twelve foot plant bent in the wind. Beside it a small fir shook as if it had St Virus’s Dance. The storm raged around the house but Rose, in her towelling robe, was warm, and she had put the heating back on a low temperature.

She took the coffee up to the attic and began to work on the watercolours. It would take most of the day but half of the job would be completed. Three more wild flowers were needed to complete the set but she hadn’t got around to sketching them yet.

It was a quiet, peaceful day. The phone didn’t ring and no one disturbed her. Later, she lay in the bath feeling she had achieved something. Only then did she recall what Doreen had told her that morning but she had not listened to the news all day. If it was true then Jack would be rushed off his feet. She was ready to go out but there was another hour or so before Barry was due to collect her. His car was now back on the road. Rose sat on the window seat and watched the rain clouds roll away to reveal a blue sky. The coastline in the distance gradually became visible again and seagulls, which had flown inland to avoid the storm were now wheeling
over the bay. How different was the view from the morning.

She picked up the novel she had not had time to finish and read the last twenty pages. So he got away with it, I knew he would. I wonder how many people murder their own mother? Her thoughts led to Nathan, who definitely had not committed matricide, before she heard Barry’s car.

‘It’s a bit better now,’ he commented as he opened the passenger door for her.

‘Yes. And you’re looking rather dapper.’ New shoes, dark brown trousers, a cream shirt and a brown and green checked sports jacket. The colours were coordinated and suited his sallow complexion.

‘Dapper? Honestly, Rosie, you come out with the quaintest words at times. What’s wrong with stylish or even handsome? No, forget the latter.’ He grinned and got in beside her. ‘I bought some wine. I’m not sure of the etiquette of occasions such as this.’

‘It can’t do any harm. It didn’t cross my mind actually. Do you know how to get there?’

‘Daphne gave me clear instructions.’

They had missed the after work traffic and realised with such a short journey they would be early. Barry negotiated the narrow, twisting lanes
and squinted at a sign. ‘That’s it. She said to turn right here.’

They bumped down a rutted lane, the ruts now filled with muddy water. Barry sighed. The car had been returned to him clean; it would now be splattered with filth.

The gate was open. Ahead was a large, rectangular building which must once have been a farmhouse. Around it were fields, some used for grazing land, and in front was a newly laid out garden. Birds sang in the trees and cows lowed behind the hedge but there was no barking dog to welcome them. Rose sniffed. She had never admitted she quite liked the healthy, grassy smell of cow dung.

The front door opened before they reached it. Rose recognised Daphne immediately. Both women smiled. ‘Come on in, we’re glad you could make it.’ She made it sound as though this was some sort of celebration. ‘Rod, Barry and Rose are here. Oh,’ she turned to Rose. ‘I’m sorry, do you mind if I call you that?’

‘Not at all.’ They followed Daphne into the large lounge at the front of the house. The enormous picture windows gave a view over miles of sloping countryside. Only in the very far distance could a sliver of sea be seen.

Rod Hill stood awkwardly in front of the fireplace knowing he would be under scrutiny. Barry knew about his past but did Rose Trevelyan? He smiled and shook hands as the introductions were made. ‘What would you like to drink?’

They all had wine. ‘Help yourselves,’ Daphne said, indicating the glass bowls of nuts and crisps and olives.

‘My wife seems to have taken to shop work,’ Rod said when they were all seated.

‘She’s ideal, a natural with the customers. And it gives me a chance to get over to the print works. This is a lovely house.’

‘Thank you, but we can’t take the credit for that, it was modernised before we moved in. The garden’s my domain. I’ve made a start. It looks bare at the moment but when those shrubs start to mature it’ll improve.’

Flowering shrubs, Rose noticed, although she couldn’t name them as her father would have done.

‘And the back’s devoted to vegetables. Want to have a look?’

Rose smiled. It seemed that Rod Hill had taken to Barry. Barry put his drink on a small table and went to inspect Rod’s work.

Daphne picked up an olive and chewed
it slowly wishing they’d all gone outside. ‘Does … did …?’

‘Yes. Barry told me,’ Rose said. ‘I promise you it’ll go no further. Barry’s known me for years, he knew I would never say anything.’

‘Thank you. I appreciate it. We both do.’ She turned to look for her glass.

Rose watched her. Daphne was dressed in a similar way to the first time they had met and her hair and make-up was immaculate. But there was a jerkiness to her movements which did not seem natural to her. She picked up her glass and sipped. ‘It hasn’t been easy for us. Most people believed Rod was guilty. The girl lied, she was a trouble-maker and she thought it all a joke. She was too immature to realise she’d ruined two people’s lives. I can’t forgive her, Rose, as hard as I try. Rod will never be able to teach again.’

‘The main thing is that you believe him.’

Daphne bit her lip. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Yes, of course I do.’ The modicum of doubt was not in her words but in her tone.

‘How long have you lived here?’

‘A couple of months. We’re still getting used to it.’

A couple of months. And since their arrival
there had been two attacks on young girls. ‘Have you met anyone yet?’

‘Well, as you must’ve noticed, we’ve no near neighbours and what with getting the house ready and my finding a job, there hasn’t been time. Rod goes to the pub a couple of evenings a week. It does him good. Before I started at the shop we were together all day. We both realised we needed some space.’

Rose nodded. It was natural enough but it did give him the opportunity to … stop it, she told herself. Don’t be ridiculous. Her first impression was that Rod Hill cared very much for his wife. He did not strike her as the sort of man who would have an affair with an underage pupil, but then what man would? And he had the advantage of being mature as well as good-looking, which often appealed to young women. And the girl who had been raped had been walking not far from here. All right, the second attempt had been in Hayle but Rod possessed a powerful motorbike. But what excuse could he have given to have been absent around half-past eight on a Sunday morning? And what would Jack say now if he knew what I was thinking? Forget it, Rose, let him do the job.