by Will North
“You’re sounding positively Sherlockian, but do go on...”
“The steel gate set into the stone wall is open, yes?”
“Yes.”
“No responsible farmer would leave it so.”
“No. I’m with you.”
“Now look at the ground at the gate. What do you see?”
“Tyre tracks, no surprise there.”
“Correct. But what kind of tyres, and whose? Look Calum, someone jerks her car to the right directly opposite a farm gate. Why? Because something lurched through the gate and surprised her. You got another theory?”
“Dog? Cat? Sheep? Cow?
“You can be so contrary.”
“Just considering alternatives.”
“Are you saying I’m not right?!”
“Not at all. Plus, I see no hoof or paw prints at the gate, so I think you are on to something. I just want your conclusion to stick. Let’s just remember: I’m about protecting evidence.”
“And I’m about collecting it.”
“And my team’s job is to make sure your evidence holds up, so you and the Crown Prosecution Service can win. You with me on this?”
Morgan stared at him, hands on hips. “What are you, my keeper?”
“You could do worse, you know….”
“Go to hell.”
West laughed. “Working with you is like already being there, luv.”
“Whatever. So, genius, what’s your own conclusion?”
“I agree with you. Something or someone triggered this event. And if it was another vehicle, why flee? Why not call 999 and report the incident immediately?”
“Fear? Expired license? No motor insurance cover? Young driver on a Learner’s Permit?”
“All good reasons to leave the scene. But a 999 call could be anonymous.”
“Which leads us to one more option.”
“I know.”
“A deliberate act.”
“But why?”
“How about adultery, for starters?”
“Pardon?”
“The victim was having it on with Archie Hansen, Calum.”
“And this was going to be entered into my evidence record, when?”
“Relax. It’s probably waiting for you on your computer up in Bodmin. I just learned about it myself, earlier today.”
“So we’re looking at three possibilities, then, yes?”
“Well done, Calum. Someone unknown who fled, and two others: a cuckolded husband, or whatever he is in their religion, if that’s what it is, and an angry, jilted woman.”
West walked across the lane and climbed down to the men in the ravine, taking reference photos as he went. “How we doing, Rafe?” he asked his most senior investigator.
“Nothing down here but a wrecked Cortina and a lot of blood, Guv. Car’s too damaged to say if it might have been hit. But the tyres are fine. No blowout.”
“All right, wrap it up. I need your team to take tyre print castings up on the road.”
“Got that kit in the van, Guv. Be right there.”
Using broken branches for handholds, West ascended the ravine. He paused twice. Though only in his late forties, West’s heart had taken to fibrillating with exertion. He’d told no one. He stood for a moment at the top before crossing the lane. Davies noticed.
“You okay, Calum?”
West waved a hand. “Too much desk time. Getting out of shape, I reckon. I’m fine.” He crossed the road. Davies was looking uphill.
“What are you thinking?” he asked.
“I’m thinking we need to know who owns this field. I’ve already sent PC Novak a text. He’s at the Falmouth nick and is good at research. Bates was there, too, and I’ve told her to come. She’ll be here within the hour. I need to let Beatrice Masters know what’s happened to her sister and Terry is a trained Family Liaison Officer.”
“Why the sister? What about the husband?”
Davies looked at West and simply raised an eyebrow.
“Oh, right. Of course. He’s a possible suspect.”
“And I need to know more about him first, like whether he farms this field. Plus, there’s something else I need to know.”
“Yes?”
“Who might have known Joellyn Masters would be driving along this lane this afternoon.”
DAVIES’S MOBILE RANG as she watched the SOCO boys make tyre print castings. It had just gone four in the afternoon. “Yes?” she barked.
“Massive internal injuries, Morgan,” Jennifer Duncan said from the mortuary at Truro. I haven’t begun the post-mortem yet but from what I’ve seen so far, death would have been immediate, or nearly so.”
“That’s a blessing.”
“Not for her, Morgan.”
“No, of course not. I’m sorry. I’m just trying to get my mind around this. I was with her only this morning.”
“Morgan, you didn’t drive her into that ravine....”
“Yes, but what or who did…?”
“She just took a turn too fast? The medics at South Western Ambulance told me about the site.”
“Neither Calum nor I believe that she simply drifted off the road. Something or someone startled her. Her reflexes kicked in. There is possible evidence. We’re working on it.”
“Okay, but take care of yourself, Morgan.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Your heart, Morgan, your well protected heart…take care of it. You interviewed her only hours ago and now she’s gone. I’m sending you hugs, though I suspect they’ll be rejected.”
“Maybe not today, Jennifer. Maybe not. I owe you a pint, girl. Thank you for caring.”
“I prefer whisky. Talisiker, from the Isle of Skye. I’m expensive.”
“Gorgeous blond like you? I should have guessed!”
WEST HAD BEEN listening and put his arms around her. She relented only a moment, then pushed him away. “Everything in my bones says this was no accident.”
“I think your bones are not just lovely but smart. Let me photo these castings when they’re dry. Then I’ll have the boys take them to Falmouth and scan the prints into our database. We should have the brand for you fairly soon. Maybe tomorrow.”
They both heard the screaming police siren approaching at speed and then Terry Bates roared up the hill. Davies looked at her watch.
“Jesus, Terry,” she said as Bates climbed out of the car, “that was just over half an hour!”
Bates grinned. “Isn’t that what the lights and sirens are for?”
Thirty-Nine
ONCE AGAIN, THAT same Wednesday, Davies and Bates stood at the door of the whitewashed cottage in Helford and waited for an answer to their ring. It was well past six in the afternoon but the June light was still bright.
As before, Beatrice answered.
“Detective…um….”
“Davies. Morgan Davies. And detective constable Terry Bates. May we have a word? It’s important.”
“Yes, of course, come in. Tea?”
Morgan could have murdered for a pot of tea at this point this day, but she declined.
Beatrice led them into the front sitting room overlooking the tidal channel beyond the lane bordering the house. The channel was empty now and wading birds poked their elongated beaks into the mud flats for morsels.
The three women remained standing, as if uncertain what to do next. Finally, Beatrice sat on a divan covered with an old-fashioned cabbage rose printed slipcover.
“I’m sorry,” Beatrice said, “but my sister is not here, if you were hoping to speak with her. She goes to that shop at Newtown-in-St.-Martin every afternoon to pick up a few things for our supper. But she’s late returning. I can’t imagine why. Although,” and at this she leaned toward Morgan, “I think she has a bit of a thing for that chap Gordon who runs the shop. Just a flirtation, mind you, what with, you know, her other situation. With Bobby.”
“Yes, Bobby. And her son.”
Beatrice stared at the folded hands in
her lap for a moment. “I don’t understand that, honestly. Bobby has always seemed a good and gentle soul to me. But she says not. Could he be two different people and we didn’t know?”
“I’m sure I could not say, Beatrice. Are your parents at home?”
“Oh goodness, no; they’re in Tuscany. They have a little villa in the hills there, near Montefollonico. Go there every year this time. New wine vintages about to be released you see. My father was a very successful London wine distributor. Still writes a column in the Sunday Telegraph.”
Davies took a breath. “Ms. Masters, I’m afraid we have unhappy news for you and for your parents both: your sister was involved in an auto accident on the road to Newtown-in-St.-Martin this afternoon. Her car went off the road and into the ravine near Treworgle Mill. Her injuries were severe. She did not survive.”
Beatrice vaulted from the divan and clasped her arms across her chest, as if to keep from exploding.
“No! No, this cannot be! I won’t hear of it!” The woman was trembling violently and Bates rose and took her into her arms and held her there. The sister shuddered uncontrollably.
Finally, she pulled away and dropped to the divan as if she could no longer support her own weight. “No, no, this can’t be,” she whispered. “Mum and Dad…they’ll never accept it. They’ll blame me.” She stared at the floor as if already chastised.
“You live here with your parents, Beatrice. I am wondering why…?”
“What does it matter?” She seemed glad for the change of subject.
“It’s just a question.”
“All right, if you must know, though I don’t know why: I was engaged to a soldier. Special Forces. Pathfinder Platoon. They do reconnaissance behind the lines. Gather intelligence. He disappeared in Afghanistan last year. Assumed dead, they said. The worst part is the never knowing…”
Beatrice was no longer trembling. She sank into to the cushions, her body limp with resignation.
"My parents never approved of him from the start."
“I’m sorry, Beatrice. Truly.” Davies said, kneeling beside her. “But why would your parents have left you to deal with Joellyn alone?”
Beatrice lifted her head and smiled, a smile as dim as dusk. “Because they reckoned I was used to it.”
“To what?”
“Look, Joey was beastly to me all my life, running me down so as to lift herself up. Blamed me for getting the looks and the brains. But she was still my older sister, okay? Someone I tried to look up to, which was what my parents expected. But when she found Bobby, we were all so relieved, Mum and Dad and me. Then she came back and it was tantrums and vitriol once again. She blamed everything wrong in her life on Bobby, but she focused her bitterness on me, like I was the only target she could reach. The atmosphere here has been toxic ever since she came back. Reckon that’s one reason Mum and Dad set off for Tuscany early: just to escape her. Joey said Bobby had driven her off. Fact is, they never thought Bobby Tregareth was suitable anyway, though he’s proven a fine man and a loving father. A very fine man,” she said, looking off toward the window. Davies watched the woman’s face soften.
Beatrice turned suddenly: “Does Bobby know yet? He’ll be crushed!”
“No. I’m off to see him next. And please do not inform him. That’s my job. But may I ask, Beatrice, whether you have a car?”
“No, no. We just use the old Cortina, Joellyn and me, for errands and such. My parents have a Volkswagen estate. But they drove it to Tuscany so they could load it up with cases of wine.”
“Thank you, Beatrice. Let me say that we are deeply sorry for your loss, and we mean that. No matter your relationship with your sister, it must come as a terrible shock. Detective Bates will stay with you here, to help you through this tragedy, and for as long as you wish. I think you will find her a good companion. She is a kind soul. Just like you. When you think it’s safe, Terry, call for transport and we'll get you home.”
There was silence for a moment.
“How about that tea now, Bea?” Bates said at last, taking the woman’s hand. “I reckon we could both use a cuppa or three, don’t you? Got anything stronger?”
DAVIES HAD JUST reached the car park above Helford when her mobile trilled. She leaned against her car and flipped the phone open.
“What?”
“PC Novak, ma’am.”
”Don’t ‘ma’am’ me, dammit, constable.”
“Just being polite, ma’am. How I was brought up.”
“Outgrow it. Am I polite?”
“Not especially, ma’am.”
Davies couldn’t help but laugh. “Then the name’s Morgan. Got it?”
“Right: Morgan, then. Now we have that sorted, did you wish to know the substance of my call?”
This one’s no wilting lily, Davies thought, smiling to herself. “What have you got, Novak?”
“Name’s Adam, Morgan.”
“Don’t get cheeky with me, Novak. You’re not there yet. What have you got?”
“That field above the accident site: it’s owned by the late Archie Hansen.”
“I’ll be damned.”
“That may be, Morgan; I couldn’t say. But I have another surprise for you: it’s leased by Bobby Tregareth. Legal tenancy. Tregareth leases most of his land from Hansen, according to county records. Hansen’s a major landowner on the Lizard. Or was.”
“Novak?”
“Morgan?”
“Thank you.”
“Was that you being polite?”
Davies laughed again. “You won’t be a PC long, Novak, trust me. And then you’ll be under my thumb as a detective. This is just a warning. Prepare yourself. But well done and thanks again.”
She’d just climbed into her car when her mobile rang again. The trill was getting on her nerves. Time for a new ring tone.
“Davies!”
“Good afternoon, Morgan.”
“Do you have the tyre data, Calum?”
“No. But soon. I have something else. That blood smudge on Saga’s gunwale?”
“I’d practically forgotten…”
“Yes, well, sometimes it takes a while to get results from the NHS data base. But your AB positive may be Brad Winters.”
“That weasel? I don’t see him in the picture…”
“I said ‘may’ be.”
“What about Tregareth and Johns?”
“Neither one’s a match. Nor Tregareth’s wife or whatever she was.”
“Yes, well, her.”
“Morgan, listen: I know her death hit you close to the bone, given you’d just seen her, but we’ll find the bugger who triggered it, okay? We will. My lads will have those tyre prints identified very soon. Meanwhile, given this latest death, the DCI wants another MCIT meeting at Falmouth tomorrow morning.”
“What’s Penwarren think, we’re bloody magicians?! We’ll have it all solved?”
“Mister has people he has to report to as well, Morgan. We should be thankful he’s left us in charge of this case. He could have muscled in. Probably under orders to do exactly that, but it’s just not his style. He trusts us.”
“Yes. Yes, he does. And we are lucky. I appreciate that. So many officers who reach his rank are total prats…”
“It’s his senior officers who are the prats, Morgan. I know them. SOCO deals with them all the time. Penwarren’s our buffer, our bulkhead against waves of officialdom crap. He’s always on our side, and especially on yours. He protects us.”
Davies said nothing for a moment. “I know. And you protect me, too, Calum. I am grateful to you both.”
West laughed. “Don’t be an idiot, Morgan; we look after you because you win! It’s completely self-serving. You make us look good. We don’t give a damn about you, personally. It’s all about the case!”
“Fuck off, West,” she said. But the smile was clear in her voice.
“Fucking off now, Morgan. Back to you soon about the tyres. And Brad Winters?”
“Tomorrow, Calum. Mor
e important things today. I have to inform Tregareth.”
“I don’t envy you that job, Morgan.”
“It won’t be the first time, Calum.”
“Yes. But still…”
MORGAN HAD BEEN waiting in her car for nearly half an hour when she heard the chugging diesel engine of Bobby Tregareth’s tractor as it pulled into his farmyard.
She met him as he climbed down from his cab.
“Hello, Bobby, where’s the boy?”
“Come look,” Tregareth said, beaming.
He opened the side door of the tractor cab and there was the baby, fast asleep in a wicker basket on the floor. It was lined with a soft blanket.
“Loves the tractor, he does. Puts him right to sleep, like rocking, and keeps him warm as well.” Tregareth’s grin was wide with pride.
“I need to have a word, Mr. Tregareth.”
“Yes, of course. Here,” he said, lifting the basket. “Hold him while I put the rig away.”
He engaged the tractor’s clutch and lurched it into the shed beside his other farm vehicle, an old Land Rover.
“Come inside, then,” he said when he took the basket back from Davies. “I’ll put on the kettle and this one will need a bottle when he wakes up as well. Overdue, he is.”
“He looks very peaceful.”
“Reckon he likes this life. Maybe make another farmer out of him, eh?”
“Could be.”
Morgan let Bobby get to work in the kitchen. The boy still dozed in his basket, twitching from time to time in response to noises, but never quite awakening.
Bobby poured tea into two stained mugs, brought a container of milk and a box of sugar cubes and settled into a chair at the kitchen table.
“This about Hansen again? I’ll tell you, I don’t even know what my status is on my leased land, now he’s gone. No one’s called. I want to keep my rent current and all, don’t want to be delinquent you see, but where to send the payment? Went into town, I did, and set up an account at Lloyds in Helston to show I’m keeping up….”
Davies looked at the child in the basket, and then looked at Tregareth.
“No, Mr. Tregareth, this is not about Mr. Hansen. It’s about Joellyn. She’s been in a car accident. I’m afraid she did not survive.”