Plotted in Cornwall (4 page)

She let the tape play on. ‘Rose, it’s Jack. Just a quick call to see how you are. I’ve been up to my eyes lately so I haven’t had a chance to get in touch. Give me a ring when you can, tonight if possible. Cheers.’

Rose took another sip of her drink. She was standing in the dark, staring out over the bay. The sky was inky, the sea half a shade lighter. The tops of the waves were white with spume as they rushed frantically towards the shore. The lights on the salvage tug dipped and swayed. Other lights, those of Newlyn, shone to her left, those of Marazion glittered ahead of her, distorted by distance. The Mount was a darker shadow against the sky

Jack Pearce. Detective Inspector Jack Pearce. One-time lover, now an occasional lover who wanted to be more. Tall, dark and handsome, classically good-looking, a man who could make her laugh, but also a man who could irritate her and who sometimes tried to control her. A thorn in her side. He would still be up but she didn’t feel in the mood to speak to him.

The third voice was also instantly recognisable. Geoff Carter. With relief she heard
him say he had sold another of her paintings. She had imagined something was wrong, that maybe she had not locked up properly. There were still times when she lacked confidence in herself and her abilities.

All three will have to wait, she decided, and went to put the fish under the grill.

As Rose ate, her thoughts went back Louisa and Wendy. There was a family resemblance between them, although not strong, but Wendy in particular reminded her of someone else. A week tomorrow she would see them again. When she made the preliminary sketches she might recognise who it was.

In the bedroom, warmed by central heating, she wondered why if they had the money, the Jordan sisters did not allow themselves much comfort. All that raking of fires and seeing to the range, Rose thought. It seemed more like a punishment than a way of life. Then she began to wonder if, perhaps, it was.

Rose got into the large wooden bed with its crisp white cotton sheets and the gaily patterned patchwork quilt her mother had made. She had made no attempt to modernise the room, any alterations would
have ruined its appeal. The walls were painted white, the carpet and curtains were a teddy-bear brown and the dressing-table was carved from the same shade of oak as the bed. A deep cupboard was set into the wall. It was where Rose hung her clothes. The only addition in over a hundred years had been the small radiator set against one wall.

She closed her eyes. A car passed, then another, otherwise there were no sounds except for the wind and the sea as it crashed against the rocks below the level of the road. A solitary black-backed gull called as it flew out to sea but by then Rose was asleep.

‘Good gracious. What do you make of this?’
The
Western
Morning
News
was spread open on Wendy’s lap. They had been shopping in Bodmin where they had also picked up the paper because no newsagent would deliver that far out. Beneath her tweed skirt Wendy’s legs were encased in black ribbed tights. A red mohair sweater lent colour to
her otherwise pale face. She jabbed a finger at the single paragraph, causing the paper to crackle.

Leaning over the side of the chair Louisa read the few short lines. ‘How strange. Fancy someone trying to find him after all this time. I wonder why?’ Seeing his name in print unsettled her and she needed a few minutes in which to think. The brass carriage clock on the half-moon table chimed the quarter hour. One fifteen. Lunch, later than usual, but the perfect excuse to escape.

In the kitchen Louisa buttered bread and made ham salad sandwiches as she thought of various reasons why solicitors might want Frank to contact them. The room was warm and cosy and a bacon joint which had been simmering on the range since breakfast added its meaty smell to that of the raw onions Wendy had chopped earlier for the sauce which would accompany it.

‘Shall we have a drink with our lunch?’

Louisa looked up. Wendy stood in the kitchen doorway, leaning against the jamb as if she was weak. ‘Good idea. It might buck us up a bit. Shopping always tires me.’ She smiled, aware that Wendy, who had always been the more serious one, worried
about life far more than she did herself. ‘I really fancy a gin and vermouth. Can we run to that?’

‘Gin and It? That takes me back. But I don’t think we’ve got any olives.’ She went to pour the drinks and carried them back to the kitchen. There was no ice because, without electricity, there was no way in which to freeze cubes. The larder, a one-storey extension, had a flagstone floor and marble shelves and ensured food did not perish as long as they shopped on a regular basis. Both sisters admitted this gave them something to do.

Louisa pushed a plate towards Wendy then took a sip of her drink. ‘Mm, delicious. Remember how Frank and I always had one before dinner?’ Seeing his name in the paper had brought back the memory.

‘I do.’ Wendy had been a frequent visitor to the house in Penzance. Frank might have poured the drinks but it was his day he talked about, never his wife’s. I always knew him for what he was, she thought, but Louisa seemed to love him so I kept quiet. But she had been there, near at hand, for the times when things went wrong, which they had done frequently. ‘Louisa, did Frank have any relatives?’

‘Relatives? As far as I can recall there were two ancient aunts but he didn’t keep in touch with them. Why?’ She bit into the sandwich and hoped it wouldn’t choke her. Why now? she kept asking herself.

‘Because that’s probably the answer. One or both have died and they’ve left him some money. How hard do you think they’ll look for him?’

‘I don’t know. And, Wendy, I don’t really care. Whatever the reason, it can’t affect us now.’ The house they had owned in Penzance had been in Louisa’s name; its sale and the purchase of her present home had been completed on the day of Frank’s disappearance so there had been no problems about ownership. Both women had money of their own, Wendy’s now supplemented by her old age pension and Louisa’s by investments she had made over the years and a medium-sized win on the Premium Bonds. ‘Do stop worrying, it’s nothing to do with us. Now, if you’re not going to eat that I’ll put it out for the birds.’ She finished her drink and said that as it was her turn to prepare the vegetables for dinner she might as well do so now.

‘In that case I’ll cut out that skirt I’ve been meaning to make for months.’

Louisa nodded. They both needed something to do, something to distract them from thoughts of Frank, and if they remained in the same room they would not be able to avoid talking about him. She turned to the sink and began peeling potatoes.

Rose woke at six thirty and lay in bed listening. The wind had dropped but rain lashed against the casement window in bursts. ‘Bloody typical,’ she said as she swung her legs over the side of the bed and stood up in one fluid movement. ‘The one day I decide to give myself a treat and not work it pours with rain.’ She shrugged because, on the other hand, no outdoor work would be possible anyway in such a downpour.

The telephone was ringing. She went downstairs to answer it before the machine cut in.

‘Rose? It’s me.’

‘Laura?’ The voice most familiar to her was hardly more than a vaguely recognisable croak.

‘I can’t make it today I feel like death.’

‘It doesn’t matter, especially in this weather. It wouldn’t have been much fun. You sound dreadful. Go back to bed and
stay there. Shall I come over?’

‘No. I’ll be okay and I can barely speak.’

‘I’ll call in later anyway and see how are you.’ Flu, Rose thought as she filled the coffee machine with water. At least Laura could rest because Trevor was at sea.

The day had not started well; first the weather and now Laura. Rose decided to use the change of plan to advantage and type out some invoices and develop the roll of film still waiting upstairs. Occasionally she did some photography for old clients who insisted it was her services they wanted. The jobs were mainly commercial; building sites, factories or staff groups. Gone were the days when she took pictures of a baby’s first birthday or a fiftieth wedding anniversary. She had to admit that she still enjoyed taking the shots for postcards when a wide-angle lens could capture a panoramic view of a harbour, a coastline or a cluster of cottages grouped around one of the numerous coves. But that was summer work.

Looking out of the kitchen window at the saturated lawn she said, ‘Es, my ’ansome, tiz real West Penwith weather,’ in perfect imitation of Doreen Clarke, a more recent friend who lived in Hayle. She was due a visit any time now. It had been several weeks
since she had called in for a chat.

Rose took her coffee into the sitting-room and debated whether or not to light the fire. It would cheer the room up a bit, but if she was upstairs working, it would be pointless. ‘What now?’ The telephone rang for a second time. It was only just after seven but everyone knew she was an early riser.

‘Hello?’

‘Ah, there you are.’

‘Where else did you expect me to be, Jack?’

‘Don’t snap. Oh, don’t tell me, you’ve got a hangover.’

She let out a deep sigh of exasperation. ‘I have not. It was my class last night. What do you want?’

‘It’s nice to feel so loved,’ he responded wryly. ‘Did I wake you?’

‘No.’

‘Good. Look, I tried to get hold of you several times, I’ve got the day off. Fancy doing something? Not even you can work in this weather.’ He waited. ‘Rose? If you don’t want to see me, just say so.’

She wasn’t sure. She had already had one change of plan and felt vaguely irritable. Eight minutes past seven and Detective Inspector Jack Pearce had already managed
to have that effect upon her. ‘What did you have in mind?’ she asked coolly.

‘Lunch, shopping, a film, you name it.’

‘Lunch then. I’ve got things to do this morning.’ And he knows I hate shopping, she thought.

‘I’ll pick you up at twelve.’

‘Okay.’ Rose replaced the receiver. ‘Oh, Jack. What is it about you?’ She was always puzzled by the ambiguity of her feelings towards him.

The wind had changed direction. It now blew from the south and the rain pattered against the kitchen window; a more gentle rain, a warmer wind. Rose ate some toast then went upstairs to shower.

Half an hour later she mounted the flight of stairs which led from the creaking boards of the first-floor landing to the attic. She sat down, another mug of coffee to hand, and began typing with two fingers. One invoice was for Barry Rowe. She was shocked when she realised the photographs of the fishing village of Porthleven and those of Marazion had been taken over three months ago. Barry insisted they kept their business dealings on a businesslike footing, she was getting sloppy.

By ten to twelve there were four envelopes
sealed and stamped, ready to post, in her handbag. The roll of film, weighted at the bottom, was hanging by a clip in the drying cabinet and a crisp pile of ironing sat on the wooden slats of the airing-cupboard shelves. The smell of warm clothing lingered in the kitchen and Rose felt virtuous, deserving of lunch out.

‘Very nice,’ Jack said when he arrived, tapping on the window before letting himself in.

Nice. Typical Jack. Rose thought she looked rather fetching in a long-sleeved wool dress, heeled shoes and make-up. ‘Where’re you taking me?’

‘How about Truro? I know you like the wine bar.’

‘Meaning?’ She picked up her bag and keys.

‘Dear God, woman, meaning nothing. Why’re you always so teasy?’

‘You make me that way,’ she said over her shoulder as she hurried down the drive to the car. Jack had parked in the road which led from Mousehole to Newlyn. Other cars queued behind it as they waited for the oncoming traffic to pass. ‘Typical policeman, you think you can park anywhere you like,’ Rose said as she got into the passenger seat.

Jack shook his head. He was beginning to wish she’d refused his invitation.

Once they were on the dual carriageway Rose told him about Louisa and Wendy.

She’s relenting, he thought, she just cannot resist my charm.

He did not know how right he was. From time to time Rose glanced at his profile. She sometimes forgot how handsome he was, how his nearness affected her. ‘I’ve no idea how those women heard of me, although they did say they’d bought one of my paintings.’

‘Why don’t you ask them? You’re not usually averse to interrogating people.’

She turned her head. Jack’s eyes were on the road, but the faint smile was visible, even in profile. Perhaps he enjoyed the sparring as much as she did.

Truro was busy with shoppers but even their number could not dominate the city in the way in which the cathedral did. Built smack in the centre it towered over the shops which huddled within its precincts. They ducked between umbrellas as they made their way to the wine bar. It was only the second week in November but already shop windows were decorated for Christmas. Rose believed December was early
enough for such things.

They chose a table close to the bar and ordered their food and a bottle of Australian white wine. There was pasta for Jack and a Greek salad for Rose. Over lunch Jack talked mostly of the job and the big case they had been working on. Rose listened and refilled her glass twice as she wasn’t driving. Not once did he mention their relationship. Perhaps he’s accepted the way things are, she thought as he ordered coffee. Perhaps we can be good friends.

The wipers flicked backwards and forwards rhythmically as they drove back. It was warm in the car and Rose felt sleepy. She pressed the button to let down the window an inch or so. To her left a kestrel was hovering over the sloping ground below an old engine-house. It was near enough that she could see its pointed wings and long, barred tail. She pointed it out to Jack who could only take a quick look. ‘How do you know it’s not a sparrowhawk?’ he asked.

‘Sparrow-hawks don’t hover, they glide,’ she answered dismissively as she reached for the national newspaper tucked under the dashboard.

By the time they pulled into Rose’s drive it had stopped raining. Jack cut the engine
and glanced across at Rose.

He had bought their lunch, it would seem rude not to invite him in. ‘Coffee?’ she said, turning to face him. His grin of pleasure made her feel good.

‘Thanks.’

They went inside. Out over the bay the clouds were gathering again. The weather was as unsettled as Rose’s mood. When I don’t see him, I miss him, if he rings too often it annoys me. I must be terribly selfish, she realised as she made the coffee. Maybe I’m doing it all wrong, maybe I shouldn’t have listened to Laura. Laura was a great believer in keeping a man on his toes. ‘Once they see you’re hooked they’ll either get bored and leave you or else they’ll start taking you for granted,’ she had told Rose one night when they were exchanging confessions in the Swordfish bar. Well Rose certainly kept Jack on his toes.

‘Is that why you and Trevor are always threatening to split up?’ Rose had asked with a grin. It hadn’t been like that with David. They had always shown each other consideration. But Jack wasn’t David and that was the problem. Maybe some mental defence mechanism was at work, maybe she refused to get too close, to commit herself,
because she could not bear the idea of losing someone she loved again.

There was a closed expression on Rose’s face. Jack wondered what had caused it. ‘When are you going back to Bodmin?’ he asked, hoping to gain her interest.

Rose joined him at the kitchen table. ‘Next Thursday. We’ve agreed on one session a week.’

‘I hope it goes well for you.’

She saw that he meant it. ‘Thank you.’

To her surprise Jack didn’t stay long. She had imagined he would prolong the visit to encompass supper. But he stood up, stretched, then bent to kiss her on the cheek. He smelled of soap and lunchtime garlic. ‘I have to go. I’m meeting up with some old mates from CID in Plymouth. They’re only down here for one night.’

Rose raised one eyebrow and grinned. ‘I hope you’re stocked up with paracetamol.’ She could envisage the evening ahead. ‘And don’t stay out too late, you know you can’t stand the pace anymore.’ One up to me, she thought, because every time Jack caught her with a glass of wine in her hand he made her feel guilty by his judgemental silence or accused her of almost becoming an alcoholic. It was so unfair, he just always happened
to pick the moment she decided to pour a drink to turn up.

She watched him go out to the car. It was dark now and the air was damp but his firm features and thick hair were lit briefly by the interior light as he opened the door. He waved then reversed down the drive, tooting once when he reached the bottom to warn any traffic approaching from his left.

Rose had neglected Laura. She rang her, hoping she wasn’t asleep. ‘How do you feel?’