by Fiona Leitch
‘Cooee, Shirl, over here!’ An elderly couple in matching jumpers waved to us from a table in the corner. Mum smiled and I trailed after her lamely.
‘Here they are, the troublemakers!’ she said, sitting down at their table. I vaguely recognised them – Les and Janet – and we all exchanged hellos and pleasantries: how was I settling in, what was my new house like, how was Daisy enjoying it. But there was really only one topic of conversation in the room, fragments of which I’d heard as we weaved in between tables.
‘So how you holding up, love?’ said Janet kindly. ‘Terrible business to get caught up in.’
‘Terrible business,’ said Les, nodding, and I was forced to agree that yes, it was indeed a terrible business.
‘Oh, you know,’ I said vaguely, and they all nodded, even though they clearly couldn’t have known.
An even more elderly lady wearing a lacy half-apron approached our table.
‘Morning, Joanie!’ said Les, his voice rising. Old Joanie was obviously hard of hearing. ‘How are you today?’
‘Yes, it is, isn’t it,’ said Joan, and everyone at the table shared amused but sympathetic smiles.
We put our orders in – tea for me and Les, coffee for Mum and Janet, and a plate of biscuits for all of us – and old Joanie shuffled off. More of Mum’s friends joined us, people I hadn’t seen before and whose names I had no hope of remembering, who had retired and moved down from up country. By the time Joanie came back with our drinks – she may have been old and a bit doddery-looking, but she had pretty steady hands and only a tiny bit of my tea ended up in the saucer – there were about nine of us around the table and the volume of chatter in the room had gone up noticeably. It was rammed.
I relaxed as I sipped my tea and nibbled on a Bourbon biscuit. Mum’s new up-country friends were nice, and as much as I’d dismissed them as a bunch of geriatrics (mostly to wind Mum up), they weren’t really that old. I wasn’t very good at keeping track of Mum’s age; I knew she was thirty when she had me (which in those days was considered quite late, but it had just taken that long for her to fall pregnant), so that only made her seventy, and I reckoned that her group were all around that age. Had my dad still been alive, he’d have been seventy-two, but he’d died, in the best traditions of a Hollywood cop movie, a couple of months away from retirement age.
The group had been chatting and laughing about people I didn’t know, but I didn’t mind being on the periphery and just listening. But then one of them whose name I’d forgotten turned to Mum and said, ‘That poor Laity woman, she must be devastated! To lose her son and her adopted daughter all in one go.’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘She was already upset about Cheryl going missing; to get back and find out Craig was dead as well… Poor woman.’
‘Get back? Where had she been? Funny business, going away when one of your kids is missing, even if she’s not one of your own,’ said Janet. ‘She always was a bit funny, that Pauline, though.’
‘I could understand Roger being upset about it, but not her…’ said one of the other oldies.
‘Why would Roger be more likely to be upset?’ I asked. They all exchanged looks that were sort of guilty-but-dying-to-share. ‘What have I missed?’
‘You know that his brother Hamish and Donna left town in a hurry, all those years ago?’
‘Who’s Donna?’
‘Cheryl’s mum,’ said Mum. Donna, not Clare OR Eileen… I rolled my eyes and made a mental note to tell Daisy later. She would have hysterics.
‘Donna was playing around with both of the Laity brothers…’
‘That she was,’ said Mum, with a note of admiration in her voice.
‘The hussy,’ said Janet.
‘Yes, that’s what I meant.’ Mum changed her expression to one of disapproval, but I didn’t believe it for a second.
‘Anyway, they got married and moved to Bristol and five months later, Cheryl was born,’ said Janet.
‘What … so you think that Roger might be…’ I turned to Mum. ‘Why didn’t you tell me that? I wonder if DCI Withers knows? That might change things.’
‘I don’t like to gossip,’ said Mum piously, and I snorted.
‘Ha! Since when?’
‘Still, not very nice of Pauline to disappear if her husband was upset,’ said Les.
‘Roger said her nerves had been shot to pieces so she went and stayed with her mum for a couple of nights.’ I reached for another biscuit – a Jammie Dodger – and dunked it in my tea.
Janet laughed and shook her head. ‘Nerves? That one? I don’t think so. And her mum died years ago.’
I sat upright, waking Germaine, who had fallen asleep on my foot and was now covered in enough biscuit crumbs to make the base for a cheesecake.
‘She hasn’t got a mum? What about her dad, or any other family?’ Roger had definitely said she was visiting her mum, but I already knew we couldn’t exactly trust his words.
Janet shook her head again. ‘Her dad’s in a nursing home, or was anyway; I don’t know if he’s still alive. I think she’s got a sister who lives in Reading, maybe some nieces or nephews there. I used to work in the office when she and her first husband Mark had a printing company. She never said much but she was the one who made all the business decisions. Mark used to go out and play golf with the clients, but she was in charge. Don’t let the mousy act fool you.’
‘She didn’t hesitate to sell the company and make everyone redundant when Mark died and she set her sights on Roger,’ said Les. ‘Sixteen years Janet worked there, and then one day that was it, no more job.’
‘So, let me get this straight. She doesn’t have any family or anything in Cornwall? Not in, say, Helston?’ My brain fog, brought on by exhaustion and by the shock of finding Craig yesterday, was beginning to lift.
‘Helston? Wouldn’t have thought so. Oh, yes, please, same again,’ she said to Joanie, who had come round offering more drinks.
I declined another cup of tea and made an excuse about taking Germaine out for a pee. Mum looked at me; I knew she could see the synapses in my head firing, but all she said was, ‘If you want to go off and do what you need to do, don’t worry about me; someone here will give me a lift home.’ I nodded and left, my mind whirling.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
I led Germaine outside and let her sniff at a grass verge while I went over what I’d just learnt. So Roger – who may or may not have been Cheryl’s father, rather than her uncle – wasn’t the only member of the Laity family who was a liar. Wherever Pauline had been, it hadn’t been to see her mum. Had she been to Helston or somewhere completely different?
I thought back over the list of campsites we’d found the day before. I was sure there was one near Helston, close to the Loe, the largest freshwater lake in Cornwall and a popular beauty spot. Images of Craig’s body, face down in the stagnant marsh water, ran through my mind. Had Cheryl met a similar fate, in the Loe? Had Pauline been busy disposing of her body, while Roger disposed of Craig’s?
I shook my head to dismiss that idea; it was ridiculous. This was the Laitys, not the Mansons. I could imagine Roger and Pauline defrauding someone of their life savings, but going on a killing spree of their own offspring together, not so much.
I had to go to Helston. I clipped Germaine into the back seat – she looked at me in much the same way Daisy used to when I strapped her into her car seat as a toddler, kind of Oh Mum, you’re spoiling my fun – and jumped into the driver’s seat. I turned on the engine, then hesitated; should I call Withers? I felt like I should let someone know where I was going, just in case, but at the same time, if I told him about it he’d stop me going to check it out, and I didn’t know if he’d send anyone else down there for a look or just dismiss it as nonsense. No, I would go down there and very carefully check out the campsite, just as we had done yesterday, with no detours onto marshland or anything. I’d take Germaine for a quick walk around the lake if the campsite turned up blank, nothing more dangerous than that. And
if I did spot anything untoward or suspicious, I wouldn’t investigate it myself but I’d call Withers then and wait for him to turn up. I wasn’t daft; I wasn’t planning on doing anything dangerous or heroic. I’d promised Daisy I wouldn’t. So why did I have a small knot of anxiety lying like a lead weight at the pit of my stomach?
Maybe I should call Tony. He could come with me. Yes. I dialled his number, waited for him to pick up … and got through to his voicemail. Dammit. I hung up and tried again, but it went straight to messages again. I waited for the beep and then told him all the stuff I’d just discovered, and that I was going to Helston. Then I set off.
It took me about an hour and a half to get to Helston, during which time I began to relax. By the time I got past that bend I hated on the A39, I was enjoying myself. This was fun! I loved being back in Cornwall, and I was excited about my new catering business (if I ever got to do any flipping cooking), but this got my adrenaline pumping in a way that making a velouté never could. I’d never been a detective, as such, but I’d always been nosey. I put on some music and wound down the window, singing along at the top of my lungs. I felt happy. I hadn’t been unhappy, not for a while; once I’d got that cheating swine properly out of mine and Daisy’s lives, once I’d decided to go to catering college and get my life onto a different, healthier track, I’d been fine. But there’s something about sunshine and sea air, about good music played loud on a car stereo, and about having things to look forward to (I wasn’t sure what exactly, but I suspected DCI Withers was lurking in there somewhere), that takes being relatively content to the next level.
I drove through the town, heading towards Porthleven. I smiled as I saw the turning for the nearby theme park – it wasn’t exactly Alton Towers, but it was quaint and fun, and I remembered Mum and Dad taking me there when I was little – and drove on towards the campsite.
The site was situated off a narrow country lane, with nowhere to park, so I drove into the camp and parked outside the small site office and shop. Thank God I was in my car, and not the Gimpmobile; if Roger or Pauline were here, they wouldn’t recognise my Toyota but they sure as hell would’ve spotted the van. Note to self: undertake all future detective work in the car, not the van, I thought, then smiled. Future detective work? I had told Withers I was a private investigator, but I hadn’t actually meant it; it was just something he’d annoyed me into saying. Maybe deep down I had meant it…
I unclipped Germaine and went to let her out, then stopped; there was a ‘No Dogs’ sign up outside the office. Did that apply to the whole camp? I wound the window down a little way and patted her on the head.
‘Sorry, sweetie,’ I said. ‘I’m going to leave you in here for a moment. I’ll take you for a lovely’ – I nearly said the word, which would have sent her into a paroxysm of frenzied excitement and made it impossible to leave her – ‘W.A.L.K. after this, I promise.’
I shut the door and then, on an impulse, went into the office. There was a young girl behind the desk, talking on the phone and looking bored, but she paused her conversation and smiled in a friendly way as I entered.
‘Can I help you?’
‘Hi,’ I said. ‘I’m looking to buy a holiday home down here and a friend of mine recommended this site. I don’t know if you know her? Cheryl?’
The girl looked blank, then shook her head. ‘No, I don’t know her. Did you want to have a look at a caravan?’
‘Is it okay if I just have a look around the site? I’d really like to check out the location and the facilities first.’
‘Of course.’ She handed me a leaflet with a map. ‘The static caravans are all down here…’ She very helpfully pointed out an area that backed onto woodland, which in turn led down to the lake. ‘This one here – and these two next to each other – are actually for sale. I can’t let you in without the owners being here but if you like the plot, come back and I’ll take you round the show caravan, see what you think.’
‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘You’ve been really helpful.’ And she had, because hopefully if those caravans were for sale they wouldn’t be occupied by holidaymakers and would make the perfect place to hide a body until the heat died down…
I left the office and followed the map, ignoring the pitiful whining coming from Germaine in the car. I felt bad but I would only be five minutes; the site wasn’t that big, and there were only about thirty caravans in all. I would have a good nosey around the ones that were for sale, already having an excuse if anyone challenged me, and a slightly more discreet peep at the others.
I felt my phone vibrate in my pocket and took it out to look. I was surprised to see I had three missed calls from Tony, but then mobile phone coverage in this part of the country could be patchy, especially when you got out into the more rural areas. I still only had a couple of bars, but that was probably enough to get through. I’d call him when I got back to the car.
I wandered down the tarmac path, past rows of tents. Most of them were zipped up, the occupants out enjoying the delights of Porthleven (there was a pasty shop there I remembered from my childhood that was almost as good as Rowe’s in Penstowan … almost), or having fun on a sandy beach somewhere. Towards the edge of the camp was a row of trees and a toilet block. I turned left at the rubbish bins, and the caravans stood in front of me.
It was very quiet and this end of the site felt cool and shady. I’d had friends who had lived in caravans like this most of the year round – not everyone in Cornwall is lucky enough to be able to afford a quaint stone cottage with a view of the sea – and I knew these places could get absolutely boiling hot during the summer, so this would be a good spot for them. Not so great in the winter, though, when it would be cold and damp.
Like the tents, most of these caravans appeared to be occupied by families on holiday. There were swimming costumes and towels hanging outside to dry – maybe yesterday had been a beach day, and today they were off to see St Michael’s Mount or battle the crowds in St Ives – but there was no sign of anyone being inside.
I walked up to the first van that was for sale. The curtains were open, and a couple of the windows were open a crack. The site’s caravan cleaners were probably paid to pop in and air out the unoccupied caravans, even if no one had been staying there. The van next door was the same – empty, but with the curtains open. There were a couple of steps leading to French doors at the front of the caravan, so I strolled up casually and pressed my face against the glass. I could see into the kitchen and living room area; no sign of anyone. I wandered around the side of the van but the windows here were too high up to look into.
The next few caravans were occupied. I came to the last but one, which was also for sale. It stood a little apart from the row, set back under a tree, which on a hot day like today was lovely but would have been a nightmare on one of those grey winter days when a sea mist rolls in and stays there for the whole of January. It was so dark in the shadow of the tree, compared to the bright summer sunshine elsewhere, that it took me a moment to notice that the curtains were shut.
I stood for a moment, wondering what to do. Should I knock? But was I even expecting there to be anyone alive inside, or was it the temporary resting place of Cheryl’s corpse? I shivered, and it wasn’t just down to the shade.
This caravan, like many of the others, had those steps up to the French doors at the front. I climbed them nervously and pressed my face to the window. It must be really dark inside…
Was that a light on? Through the weave of the curtain material I thought I could perceive a faint glow, but it was difficult to tell with the way the branches above me diffused the sunlight, the odd ray penetrating and reflecting on the glass. Or maybe the door from the bedroom area was open, and light from a window there was showing through? I stood back, frustrated; I just didn’t know. But it was telling (or at least, I thought it was) that the curtains in this caravan were shut.
If Cheryl’s body really was hidden inside, it would be a few days old now. Cheryl would be starting t
o smell less like Calvin Klein’s Obsession and more like the remains of his dinner from two weeks ago. I swallowed hard, put my nose against the glass and sniffed gingerly.
Nothing.
Corpses really do smell quite strongly, quite quickly, and if I’d thought about it properly instead of going off half-cocked (side note: what exactly does ‘half-cocked’ mean? Should we be aiming to only go off fully cocked or not cocked at all?) I should have realised this would not be such a great place to hide one. The neighbouring holidaymakers would be sure to spot the terrible odour. I was relieved; to nick a quote from Oscar Wilde, to find two dead bodies in one week may be regarded as a misfortune; to find three looks like—
But I never decided what three looks like, as the door in front of me suddenly opened a crack and a terrified voice said, ‘Jodie?’
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Once I’d recovered my wits and rearranged my underwear I stared into the pale face in front of me. She was nearly unrecognisable without the make-up and the big hair, but she was most definitely alive.
‘Cheryl?’ I knew it was her, of course, but I couldn’t quite believe it. Withers had had me convinced she was dead.
‘Come in, quick!’ She pulled me inside and shut the door.
I looked around the room. It was nicely decorated, but it was so dark it felt cold and uninviting. A pile of magazines lay on the floor next to the sofa, and the TV was on, sound turned down low. Cheryl walked over to the kitchen area and stood behind the counter, a barrier between the two of us.
She did not look well. The immaculately groomed, confident-to-the-point-of-being-aloof young woman who had questioned every single menu choice I’d suggested, who had given my welcome-party outfit the side-eye, and who had taken the heart of my oldest friend in the world, had disappeared, replaced by the nervous, fidgety ghost of her former self. Her manicured nails, which I had once admired for their vice-like grip on Mel’s throat, were ragged and chipped. The 80s power dressing had gone, and instead of that red silk cocktail dress that had boldly declared its own glamour and sophistication, she was clad in a scruffy black velour tracksuit, which quietly muttered ‘supermarket own brand’.