‘If you’d like to show me what needs doing I’ll get going.’
There was no hesitation, no suggestion that tea or coffee was a requisite before he started the job. But as he came with Doreen’s recommendation she had not supposed he was a time waster.
‘The lawn, as you can see.’ She gestured towards the small hummocks and the accumulation of moss. ‘And the trees at the back.’ She led the way up the side of the house. The tangle of undergrowth was topped by the trees, one of which was now in full leaf and whose branches obscured much of the light from the spare bedroom. ‘I don’t know how it survives with that cliff behind it. Will you be able to work in such a small space?’
‘Yes, once the brambles are cleared. I’ll start with the lawn. You’ll have some bare patches for a while. If nature doesn’t do the job it might need re-seeding later.’ He returned to the van and opened the back. Inside was a petrol mower, a strimmer, an electric saw and various other tools of his trade.
‘Will you need a power point? There’s one in the shed. I’ve got an extension lead, too, if necessary.’
‘Thanks, but I’ve got my own.’
‘I’ve got some work to do. If you need me just shout. I’ll be upstairs.’
He nodded again and turned his back, sizing up the lawn.
Not knowing what else to say, Rose left him to it and went inside. Up in the attic she sorted though some paperwork and filed and labelled the negatives she had developed the previous evening. It was some time before she realised what a chance she had taken. Dave Fox was a powerfully built man, one she had never set eyes on before. She was alone and she had left the kitchen door unlocked and, foolishly, she had left her shoulder-bag hanging over the back of a kitchen chair. Rose shrugged. Her instincts were usually sound. He had not said much but Dave’s quiet, professional manner suggested that he was trustworthy, and Doreen certainly thought so. She hoped she was right.
An hour later she went back downstairs and watched the man in question. His arm muscles swelled as he tackled the lumps in the lawn which she had never been able to get rid of. Fair hair fell over his forehead and she could see a triangle of sweat on the back of his T-shirt. He’s very good-looking, she thought, but without any real interest. He wasn’t her type and he was too young. As if he had read her thoughts he turned to face her. Rose blushed. ‘I was wondering if you’d like some coffee,’ she said.
‘Yes, please.’
‘How do you like it?’
‘White with two sugars, please.’ He straightened up fully and stretched his back, not stiffly, just as a precaution. He wiped the sweat from his face with his forearm and sank the fork into the soil which, beneath the grass, was still damp from the rain, then went to sit on the garden bench.
Rose made the coffee feeling uncertain of what was expected of her. Never having had anyone work for her, she wasn’t sure whether to join him, to invite him in to the kitchen or to leave him to drink it alone. Politeness overcame her indecision. ‘If you’re hot why don’t you come in for a minute.’ The sun had not yet penetrated the kitchen which faced south and was still cool.
He got up and walked towards her, his size blocking the light from the doorway momentarily. Rose could smell his fresh sweat and noticed how blue his eyes were, but a paler blue than Jack Pearce’s which were a striking feature combined with his dark hair and swarthy Cornish looks. ‘Have a seat,’ she said.
He did so, pulling out one of the heavy wooden chairs without scraping it on the flagstone floor. Rose handed him a mug, pushed the sugar bowl towards him and sat down herself. For several minutes neither of them spoke. ‘Have you always done this sort of work?’ She was genuinely interested. Barry Rowe would have said she was damned nosy, Jack would have accused her of inflated curiosity had either of them been present, but she also felt a need to break the silence.
‘No. Not always.’ He sipped the coffee which was scalding hot.
‘I see.’ End of conversation, Rose thought. Cyril Clarke, trevor Penfold and now Dave Fox. Three men with few words. Or maybe Dave was shy; shy with women, or maybe her especially.
‘I believe you’re an artist.’
The statement surprised her. ‘Yes.’
‘I draw a bit myself.’
Rose nodded. This was dangerous territory. Would he want to bring some of his work along for her to look at? And what could she say if it was awful?
‘Birds mainly, pencil sketches, I try to capture their wing patterns. It’s only a hobby.’
But the request didn’t come, for which she was grateful. ‘Did you have to come far?’ she asked in case another awkward silence developed.
‘No. I live near St Erth. I have a caravan there.’
Hence only a mobile phone number, Rose realised. She still couldn’t make him out. He was well spoken, his voice accent-less apart from a hint of what? Not Cornish, certainly. She smiled. ‘Do you know I’ve never slept in a caravan, not even on holiday. Don’t you find it cramped?’
‘No. You get used to it. Lack of space doesn’t bother me, I’m not one for possessions and I’m out of doors for most of the day. They’re cheap to run, too.’
‘Do you live there alone?’ She blushed again. ‘Forgive me, that was rude. It’s none of my business.’
He looked away, trying not to smile at her obvious discomfort. ‘Not any more. I’ve got a girlfriend.’
‘Oh. Well, good.’ Keep your mouth shut, girl, Rose told herself. If he wants to tell you things he will.
‘Thanks for the coffee.’ Dave stood and pushed his chair back under the table as quietly as he had pulled it out. ‘I’ll go and finish the lawn.’ In two strides he was at the kitchen door. He ducked under the lintel, picked up his spade and got back to work.
Rose went upstairs and picked up the prints which were now dry. In the sitting-room she studied them in detail. One or two were perfect, some were good, but not good enough and a couple she put straight in the bin. She reached for a book on wild flowers which was kept on one of the shelves set into the recesses on either side of the fireplace. Thumbing through it she checked which would be flowering in hedgerows at the moment. She made some notes then wondered what time Dave would knock off and if there would be time to do some outdoor work. He would presumably want paying for the hours he had put in that day so she couldn’t leave until he had finished and she knew how much she owed him.
By the time she had tidied the attic and cleaned the windows it was almost half past one. She was hot from the exertion and needed fresh air.
‘Mrs Trevelyan?’
His voice reached her as she was coming downstairs. Rose found him standing in the kitchen doorway. He had not stepped over the threshold. ‘I’ve finished the lawn. I’ll come back next week at the same time and start on the back, if that’s convenient. I have another job to go on to this afternoon.’
‘That’s fine.’ She peered around him. ‘Goodness, it looks much better all ready. How much do I owe you?’
‘Twenty-two pounds fifty.’
She went to get her purse. She had enough cash with which to pay him. So much casual work was cash in hand and five pounds an hour was by no means extortionate even if it was more than many people earned.
He pocketed the money, thanked her, then packed up and left. As the van disappeared she heard the telephone ringing and hurried inside to answer it. There was enough of the day left to make a few sketches. God, and I haven’t even started to prepare for tomorrow’s evening class, she remembered as she picked up the receiver.
‘Hello, it’s me.’
‘Jack?’
‘How many men do you know with such a sexy voice?’ He laughed.
‘Oh, you’d be surprised, Inspector Pearce. One of them has just driven away.’
‘Oh?’
She ignored the implied question. ‘Did you ring for any particular reason or isn’t there enough crime to keep you occupied?’
Jack wasn’t sure what to make of her bantering tone. Maybe some man ha
d been there, paying her attention. At least she wasn’t snapping at him; being ‘teasy’ as his mother would say. ‘I’ve got a few hours off, I was thinking we could do something.’
This, Rose realised, was one of the reasons why their relationship would never progress. Accepted, Jack worked odd hours, but when he was free he expected her to drop everything and join him. She worked, too, but few people understood how important it was to her. Artists did not simply go off with a blank canvas and knock off a painting then laze around until inspiration struck again. ‘I’ve got rather a lot on at the moment, Jack. And there’s the exhibition on Friday.’
‘I know. And I wish I could be there. I’m pretty busy too, this is the only time I can spare to see you this week. We’re still trying to clear up these break-ins.’
Rose sighed. She had heard the pleading in his tone even though he had not meant it to show. They compromised. Jack would meet her at six and they would go out for a meal. That gave her an hour or so in which to work.
Minutes after she had replaced the receiver the phone rang again.
‘The funeral’s tomorrow afternoon. Two-thirty. Can you make it, Rose? It’s such short notice because the minister’s going away. Phyllis was one of his most regular attenders so he wants to conduct the service himself. I only found out myself last night.’
‘Of course. Where is it?’
Doreen gave her directions to the church and Rose said she would pick her up just after two.
‘I do appreciate it,’ she said. ‘Thank you.’
Rose was aware that Doreen would need the comfort of another friend when saying goodbye to Phyllis. Hopefully Nathan’s aunt would be there for him.
Having telephoned a florist to arrange flowers she left the house just as she was, in what had become her uniform; denim skirt, a short-sleeved shirt and espadrilles. Her hair was held back with a bright yellow band. Over her shoulder hung the large leather bag in which were pencils and various sketch pads. At the bottom of the drive she crossed the road to the safety of the pavement and walked along the coast towards Mousehole. The pavement had now been widened to include a cycle path which she had yet to see anyone use, and extra seats had been added from which to admire the spectacular view. The rickety wooden railings had also been replaced. There was a long drop down to the rocks. Cars passed in both directions as did the buses whose route lay between Penzance and the picturesque fishing village with its narrow streets and tiny cottages. Rose passed several pedestrians, none of whom she knew, but they either nodded or said hello.
Sitting on a bench, she studied the shrubs and the wild flowers which grew high in the hedge and spilt down towards the rocks which lay hidden from the road. Gulls circled overhead and a male chaffinch, with its distinctive colouring, sang in a nearby tree. After a few minutes she began to sketch a purple flowered vetch with its delicate stem and pinnate leaves.
By five o’clock the sun was behind her and she had filled three pages, a single stem to each: vetch, cow parsley and common cleavers. Satisfied, she began the walk home. It was hot, but not unbearably so. When she reached the house and let herself in, she could smell the sun-warmed flesh of her arms. She realised there was now only about half an hour in which to shower and change and be ready for Jack. She put on a yellow dress and brown leather sandals with a small heel. Her hair, freshly washed and quickly blow-dried, swung around her shoulders feeling thicker for the inch she had had trimmed from it.
Jack rapped on the kitchen window just as she had finished getting ready. David used to admire her ability to do so in minutes. She let Jack in noticing how tired he looked.
‘Um, you smell nice,’ he said as he bent to kiss her cheek.
‘I should do, it’s the perfume you bought me.’ His dark, springy hair had also recently been washed, it was still damp at the roots. She smiled, taking comfort, as she often did, from his size, his warmth and his familiar odour – a combination of clean cotton, lemony after-shave and the scent of his skin.
‘I thought we’d go to Fletcher’s. Is that all right with you?’
‘Great.’ She had not heard his car. ‘Did you drive?’ Jack shook his head. ‘Okay, I’m ready.’
They set off, walking side by side in silence, enjoying the summer evening. Rose was disappointed he hadn’t noticed the effort she’d made. Her normal attire was far less formal. At least he’d noticed the perfume.
They strolled along the Promenade and stopped to look out to sea. Few people, whether local or holiday-makers, could resist doing so. The familiar large white shape of the Scillion, returning from its daily crossing to St Mary’s, rounded the headland as it passed St Clement’s island. A few small craft drifted in the bay and a number of children swam in the water.
The Promenade was unspoiled, no buildings marred its length or wide expanse. On the opposite side of the road was the sole amusement arcade on the front. Above it was Fletcher’s restaurant. It was a large, ornate place with views of the sea. Most of the seating was arranged in high-backed booths where wooden benches ran either side of big, solid tables. The menu was American-based; burgers and ribs and barbecued chicken, with the addition of specials and salads.
‘Wine or a cocktail?’ Jack asked when they had been seated. He grinned. ‘Both, knowing you.’
‘Naturally. We’re on foot, after all.’ Rose picked up the menu.
Once their cocktails had arrived and they had placed their order, ribs for Jack and fish for Rose, Jack began to relax. ‘These burglaries are driving us mad. Ten successful ones and five attempts now. We’re sure it’s the same person, or people, but can we pin them down?’ Rose might be irritating at times, occasionally interfering and always a mystery to him, but he trusted her totally. Nothing he said would go any further.
‘What sort of burglaries?’
‘Private houses. It seems whoever’s doing it studies the residents’ habits. Some have been in daylight.’
‘No fingerprints?’
‘Oh, yes, at several locations, but they don’t belong to anyone known to us.’
‘One of those gangs then?’
‘Possibly.’ The area had been targeted by gangs of thieves or conmen from cities, as had several other rural areas. They would come down, work the area then go away again before their crimes could be detected. Jack shook his head. ‘On the other hand, these jobs don’t look like the work of professionals. Rose, I want you to promise me you’ll lock your door from now on.’ And now a young girl had been raped. A statement had been given to the press but Lucy Chandler’s name had not been released. Even Rose could not be given that information. ‘Have you read today’s Western Morning News?’
‘No, I didn’t have time to buy it. Why?’
If she didn’t know he wasn’t going to mention it. ‘It’s nothing. Sorry, Rose, I shouldn’t be burdening you with this, we’re supposed to be enjoying ourselves. Tell me what you’ve been up to. No, wait,’ he held up his hands in mock despair, ‘I think I’d rather not know.’
‘Well, that man I was telling you about on the phone, he’s a gardener.’ But was he just a gardener? Dave Fox would have plenty of opportunities to study people’s movements. Was she being ridiculous? Rose wasn’t certain but she’d heed Jack’s warning.
‘What? For your small patch? Your dad been on at you again, has he?’ Jack liked Rose’s parents as much as they liked him and he knew how much they loved and cared for their own garden.
Rose laughed. ‘No. I wanted the lawn sorted out and you know how badly the back needs clearing.’
‘I could’ve done it for you.’
She detected a hint of jealousy and his next words proved her right.
‘What’s he like?’
‘He’s big and strong and very handsome. He told me he lives in a caravan and that he hasn’t always been a gardener. Apparently he’s just got himself a new girlfriend. He’s not local. I wonder if he’s got a past, if this is his way of turning his back on it all?’
‘Honestly, woman, I me
ant is he doing a good job? I should’ve known you’d subject him to an interrogation.’
She sniffed. ‘He seems to be pretty efficient. Didn’t you notice the lawn? It’s flat now.’
‘Maybe so, but Rose, you know what you’re like. Don’t go poking your nose in. The man’s entitled to his private life.’
‘Don’t go poking your nose in,’ she mimicked. ‘Anyway, Doreen Clarke recommended him.’
‘Then say no more.’ The waitress placed the dry white wine and two glasses on the table. Jack thanked her, indicating that he would pour it himself. ‘How is Doreen?’ At the mention of her name Rose’s smile had faded.
‘She’s just lost a very old friend.’
‘I’m sorry. You knew her?’
‘Phyllis? Yes, I did. Not well but I met her on several occasions. I’m going to the funeral tomorrow, Doreen asked me especially, although I would have gone anyway.’
Jack reached across the table and took her hand. All right, Rose might be trouble at times but she was always there for someone else’s troubled times.
‘There’s a son. Nathan. He’s about forty. Heaven knows what’ll happen to him now.’ She smiled ironically. ‘It’s my turn to apologise. As you said, we’re supposed to be enjoying ourselves. And, as you can’t have helped but noticed, Inspector Pearce, my glass is empty.’
Jack smiled back even though Lucy Chandler was still on his mind. She had spent the remainder of Sunday night in hospital, bruised and shaken but with no serious injuries. The damage to her mind might be a different matter.
Pale-faced and a little overweight, she had come across as sensible and reasonably coherent. Unfortunately, her attacker had approached her from behind and had raped her from behind, his hand over her nose and mouth.
‘I didn’t turn around, I couldn’t,’ she had told them. ‘Even when I knew he had gone I stayed where I was and kept my eyes closed. I thought if he knew I’d seen him he’d come back and kill me.’
Killed in Cornwall Page 4