Caught Out in Cornwall

by Janie Bolitho

  Sally nodded. They hadn’t drunk half of the cups they had made through the long hours of the night, but it had given them something to do.

  On the three occasions that Janice had answered the telephone Sally’s hopes had been raised. But there had been no news. Beth had simply disappeared.

  ‘Are you certain her father couldn’t have taken her?’ Janice asked once more when she returned with the tea.

  ‘Positive. I know he thinks the world of her but he couldn’t possibly look after her. Besides, as I said, he doesn’t even know where we are.’

  Michael Poole, Beth’s father, was a sales representative and was therefore on the road all day. There were also occasions when he stayed away overnight. Janice had given his address to the officer in charge. Detective Inspector Jack Pearce was following this up. No matter what Sally believed, it was often a father, a mother or a near relative who snatched a child. The previous year Michael Poole had applied for custody, claiming that Sally was an unfit mother. As he had not seen either the mother or the child for a long time his reasons were unclear. However, Social Services reports proved otherwise.

  ‘What time is your sister arriving?’ It was eight o’clock and barely daylight. Janice pulled back the curtains and lowered the flame on the gas fire. Sally made no objection; she probably hadn’t noticed.

  ‘As soon as she’s spoken to the children. She said they wouldn’t be going to school today.’

  Janice nodded. Aged six and five they were old enough to understand what was happening.

  Carol, Sally’s sister, older by two years, had moved to Marazion after her marriage to John Harte. Janice was aware of this and that the family originated from Looe, on the north coast of Cornwall. John was a mining engineer and he, like so many others, had been forced to find work overseas. From tin mining he had changed to oil. He was extremely well paid but his work kept him away from home for long periods. As he was currently in Saudi, and this had been checked, he was not a suspect. Carol had not stayed overnight even though her children were with her mother. Janice was there and would have slept on the sofa if necessary but Carol could not bring herself to sleep in Beth’s room.

  The police had interviewed Carol the previous evening. ‘Since Sally and Michael split up I’ve only seen him once,’ she had told them. ‘He was good enough to deliver something my mother was keeping for me.’ Carol thought it highly unlikely that Michael had anything to do with his daughter’s disappearance.

  The sisters’ father was dead but their mother still lived in Looe above the souvenir shop she now owned and ran. She had been devastated when she heard what had happened to her granddaughter, but even when she had stopped crying she could think of no one who would have taken her. She had rung Sally, offering to come down immediately, but Sally had refused the offer. It was obvious to the police who had called on Mrs Jones that there was no child on the premises, either in the shop and storerooms or in the flat above. Permission had been given freely for them to search. Alice Jones was not insulted; she knew it was part of their job.

  The telephone rang again. Janice picked up the receiver.

  ‘No go as far as Poole’s concerned,’ Jack Pearce told her. ‘We’ve kept an eye on him overnight and he didn’t leave the house. It’s also been confirmed that he kept all yesterday’s appointments. They were mostly in the Devon area. There just wasn’t time for him to have done it. He got home around seven last night, alone, and left again this morning.’

  ‘I see.’ Janice did see but she kept her thoughts to herself. If little Beth was not with one of the family, the most obvious place to start, the chances of finding her soon, or alive, were narrower. The puzzling thing was that if Mrs Trevelyan was telling the truth, and there was no reason to suspect otherwise, and the child had gone willingly, had even held up her arms to be carried, then it strongly suggested that she knew her abductor well. Or else Rose Trevelyan was mistaken, had seen only what she had expected to see, a father picking up his child, not a man snatching an unknown one from a beach. ‘What do you want me to do, sir?’

  ‘Say nothing for the moment, there’s no point in adding to her distress.’

  A little over an hour later Carol Harte arrived. Sally and Janice were sitting in armchairs each side of the fireplace. Wintry sunlight did nothing to cheer the room. Unlike her sister, Carol’s hair was its natural reddish brown. Her body was more rounded, but firm. The only thing they had in common was the pallor of their skin. She hugged Sally silently. There were no words to convey what they both felt and anything that could be said had been said the night before when Carol had come over as soon as the police had left. With Tamsin and Lucy at their grandparents’ there had been no babysitting arrangements to make. ‘Is there any news?’ she asked pointlessly because Sally’s face had already given her the answer.

  ‘No, nothing. Oh, God, Carol, what am I going to do?’ Without warning, tears streamed down her face. It kept happening, it was something over which she had had no control since yesterday afternoon.

  ‘It’ll be all right. They’ll find her.’ Carol hated herself for the platitudes but how could she say anything else – especially when all three women were beginning to doubt this was true?

  This time it was Carol who made the coffee. For the moment there seemed nothing else anyone could do.

  Detective Inspector Jack Pearce sat at his desk at the police station in Camborne and ran a hand through his thick, dark hair in which the odd streak of grey was beginning to appear. He could not be mistaken for anything but Cornish even before his accent gave him away. His family went back for generations. With a marriage in the distant past and two grown up sons who still came on regular visits, he was a reasonably contented man. If Rose would agree to commit herself to him then he would be totally happy. On the other hand, he was fully aware that the relationship would be tempestuous. They had that effect on one another. Now that Arthur was living in the area he might be able to put some pressure on his daughter. Arthur, he knew, would love to see them married.

  A child is missing, I should not be thinking of Rose, he told himself, except her name had come up on the computer as a witness to the incident, apparently the only witness. Trust her, he thought; trust her to bloody well be involved. This time, however, he could hardly accuse her of meddling, she just happened to be in the right place at the right time. Or the wrong place. Pure chance had taken her to the beach at Marazion.

  He looked over the information they had so far, which didn’t amount to much; the names and addresses of Sally Jones’ family, a full description and a photograph of Beth, and Rose’s account of what she thought had happened. The photograph had been copied and distributed to all local officers and the press. It had also been transferred to the computer where it was accessible to every officer nationwide. Apart from Rose’s quite detailed description of the man; a description which Jack knew would be more accurate than most, there was nothing else to go on. Presumably he had a car but no one in the car park would have looked twice at a man carrying a child and by then any potential witness would probably have been hurrying for shelter.

  Apart from the usual rash of nutters claiming to have the child or to know where she was, no definite sightings had been reported. The man could be anywhere by now. But the nutters’ stories had to be checked, they could not afford to ignore them.

  A local search was continuing. Jack’s worst fear was that Beth had been murdered, never to be found, her body hidden in some deserted spot. And there were plenty of those in West Cornwall.

  Satisfied that everything possible was being done he left the building and got into his car. He wanted to talk to Rose. The sky had clouded over and it was colder now, more typical of November. Hopefully she would be at home. But Beth, what chance did she have out there in such weather? The best Jack could hope for was that wherever she was she was warm and well fed.

  Rose’s car was not in the drive. Jack cursed, scribbled a note and shoved it under the back door.

  Th
e sky was a brilliant palette. Streaks of pink and orange were spread over the whole of the bay heralding the sunrise. Rose watched the colours glow then begin to fade as daylight arrived.

  After coffee and toast and one of her rationed cigarettes she showered and dressed and dried her hair. It was auburn and wavy, not yet fading, and shoulder length in the style she had worn since her schooldays. As it suited her there was no point in changing it. She was petite with none of the stretch marks of childbearing, although she would have accepted them readily if she had ever become pregnant. At least she had been able to devote herself to David in the years that they had had together.

  Up in the loft, which was reached by a flight of wooden stairs hidden behind a pine door, was Rose’s office; a tiny darkroom and her sometimes workplace. The light was good, the Velux windows faced north.

  There were a couple of invoices to send out for photographic work she had completed, although she took on fewer commissions these days, as she preferred to paint. Now that she had finally got to grips with the computer she had bought earlier in the year, this took very little time. That done, she studied a couple of paintings that were ready for framing before they went on show in Geoff Carter’s gallery. They had been an experiment, they were worked in gouache; a way of painting in opaque colours which were ground in water and thickened with gum and honey. Conversely, the paint could be thinned down. She was pleased with the results but still preferred the medium of oils.

  After her marriage Rose had continued to paint, mainly with watercolours, and she had taken up photography for which she also had a natural flair. But since David’s death her career had really taken off. Somehow she had found the courage to paint boldly, to not be afraid of the oils and her dramatic work sold successfully.

  How proud she was to have had two shared exhibitions followed by one solo show.

  She swore when the telephone rang. If it were Doreen Clarke she would never get off the line and she was eager to start work. It was the time of day she usually rang; after breakfast and before she went off to one or other of her cleaning jobs.

  The phone was on a small table behind the sitting-room door, placed there so that she could see the panorama of Mount’s Bay as she spoke. As tempting as it was to let the answering machine take over, Rose hurried down the two flights of stairs. Curiosity usually overcame prudence. Outside, the wind might be blowing strongly, but the sky was the startling shade of blue only seen in Cornwall.

  ‘Is that Mrs Trevelyan?’ an unknown female voice asked.

  ‘Yes, it is.’

  ‘You don’t know me and I’m sorry to bother you but my name’s Carol Harte, I’m Sally Jones’ sister.’

  ‘Is there any news?’ For a second Rose thought she was ringing to say Beth had been found but her subdued tone suggested otherwise.

  ‘Unfortunately there isn’t. I know it’s an imposition but Sally wondered if you’d come over and see her. I don’t know what she thinks you can do, but I’ll go along with anything she wants at the moment.’

  How had the woman survived the night? What on earth must she be feeling? ‘Of course I’ll come. Give me the address and I’ll be there as soon as I can.’ She wrote down the directions and hung up.

  Despite the sun, it was bitterly cold as the wind was blowing from the east. Rose got into the car and, once the engine was warm, drove down the hill into Newlyn where the fish market was already closing. Several men were hosing down the concrete floor of the slightly raised building. There were no fish boxes to be seen. They had already been loaded on lorries and were on their way to their various destinations. A lone blackback gull demolished a fallen fish in one gulp. She turned on to the Promenade where the fierce wind buffeted her small car. The tide was out now, but later, if the wind remained as strong, waves would sweep over the Promenade railings bringing with them stones and seaweed and the possibility of the road being closed.

  Carol’s directions were easy to follow. Rose soon arrived in Marazion whose name, with a variation of spellings, meant Thursday Market. It was one of the oldest towns in England, having been granted its first charter of incorporation in 1257 by Henry III. Despite its narrow streets she found somewhere to park, an impossible feat in the summer.

  Having walked the short distance to the large, detached house with a small garden she rang the bell above the name Jones. The building had been converted into two self-contained flats. A disembodied voice told her to push the door and go up to the first floor.

  At the top of the flight of deep stairs a young woman was waiting for her. It had to be Carol as it certainly was not Sally.

  ‘Thank you so much for coming. She’s had no sleep and she’s in a terrible state. But who wouldn’t be? Come on in.’

  Rose followed her into a small hallway and through a door, which led in to the front room where the warmth enveloped her immediately. The furniture was shabby but not unreasonably so. There was an empty photoframe on the sideboard. Rose guessed the police had taken away Beth’s picture. The view from the window showed nothing more than the roofs of the houses below.

  In an armchair sat a gaunt, hollow-eyed Sally. Beside her were an overflowing ashtray and a vodka bottle with only an inch or so of spirit remaining. Carol took control and introduced Rose to Janice. ‘You’ve met Sally, of course.’ She bit her lip. She’d nearly added, when Beth disappeared.

  Sally tried to stand, but couldn’t. ‘Thank you for coming,’ she said as tears filled her eyes. ‘I don’t really know why I wanted to see you again. Maybe I imagined I’d feel better talking to the last person to see her before that man took her.’

  ‘Talking often helps.’ Rose knew the words were facile but she had no idea what else to say, and even less idea how to offer the comfort Sally so desperately required. ‘I’ve told the police everything I remember seeing. I just hope it’s been helpful.’

  ‘Can you describe the man to me again? I wasn’t really taking in very much yesterday.’

  Rose did so as she tried to think of anything she might have missed, some small but vital detail that would lead to his identification and restore the child to her mother. She was aware that Janice was taking it all in even though she wasn’t taking notes. Perhaps the PC’s presence here would mean a second interview with the police would prove unnecessary. However, there was nothing she could add and the description did not fit anyone that Sally knew.

  Rose refused the offer of coffee and left after a fruitless half hour. She had been unable to offer Sally any hope. It was Carol who walked with her to the front door. ‘I’m glad my sister’s moved down here. She needs looking after and Mum’s always too busy with the shop. She did offer to come straight down yesterday evening but Sally said no. Sally’s life hasn’t been easy.’ She paused. ‘John, that’s my husband, and myself, well, we both think she might be an alcoholic but doesn’t realise it. You must’ve noticed the vodka bottle.’

  Rose had, but in the same circumstances it was something to which she might have resorted herself. But why was Carol telling her this? I must not get involved, she thought, although for some reason she got the impression that Carol Harte was a manipulative woman and actually wanted her to become involved.

  A door to their right opened and an elderly woman stood in its frame. ‘Ah, I thought I heard voices,’ she said. ‘Has Sally had any news?’

  ‘No, I’m afraid not. This is Rose Trevelyan; she’s the lady who last saw Beth. Rose, this is Mrs Penhalligon.’

  Mrs Penhalligon looked at her sharply in a way which suggested that Rose, herself, might have abducted Beth, but that was not what was going through her mind. ‘I know the name. You’re an artist, aren’t you?’

  ‘Yes.’ It always pleased Rose when her name was recognised, although Mrs Penhalligon in her ill-fitting dress, sensible shoes and tightly permed hair did not strike her as someone who would be interested in art. But presumptions are foolish and Rose was proved wrong.

  ‘I’ve seen some of your work. It’s not bad at all.’
>
  ‘Thank you.’ This was more of a compliment than it sounded. The lady in question bore a strong resemblance to Doreen Clarke who, on a first meeting had said something very similar. Now there was no stopping Doreen’s hyperbolic praise.

  ‘I’m Norma, by the way, Sally’s landlady. I had a big family once but when Harry passed on and the children had all left home I couldn’t see the sense in keeping on a large house. But I didn’t want to move either. I had a few alterations made and this way I’ve got the best of both worlds. The extra money comes in handy, too.

  ‘Anyway, it was nice to meet you. Drop in any time if you’re over this way. I’m never far away.’ Norma Penhalligon shut her door as quickly and as silently as she had opened it.

  ‘Thank you again for coming,’ Carol said as she opened the main door for Rose.

  ‘I don’t think it did any good but it was no trouble.’ Rose walked back to the car, glad of the fresh air after the heat of Sally’s front room. It had been a strange visit; there were undercurrents she couldn’t quite pinpoint. Even Mrs Penhalligon had seemed to be offering a challenge by way of inviting her back.

  When Rose got home she found a note from Jack lying on the kitchen floor. He must have pushed it under the door. He had never learnt to telephone first, always wrongly assuming she’d be there if he needed or wanted to see her.

  ‘… I’ll be back around five if that’s convenient. If not, leave a message on my voicemail,’ he’d written.

  Wrapped up warmly against the weather, Rose drove out to Porthcurnow and sketched the waves as they crashed against the jagged cliffs, sending spray high into the air. Below her, the golden sand was pristine; the earlier high tide had washed away any footprints. The beach was deserted, so different from the summer months when visitors abounded, especially when there was a production at the Minack theatre. It was an open-air construction, a tiered semicircle carved out of the cliff and with a spectacular view of the sea.