Killed in Cornwall

by Janie Bolitho

  The equivalent of playing dead, Jack realised. It was often a victim’s natural reaction.

  ‘Jack? Are we leaving or are you falling asleep? Come on, you can walk me home.’

  He smiled again. Surely that was an invitation to stay the night.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  By Wednesday morning Gwen Chandler needed to get out of the house. More than that, she needed someone to talk to, someone other than her daughter or the WPC who had been assigned to them for as long as they needed her. Nothing she had said so far had encouraged Lucy to talk.

  Gwen could not begin to imagine the effect the rape might have on her daughter’s future, she only knew what it had already done to herself. Her guilt was as predominant as her pity; a mother’s guilt, which led her to believe she could somehow have prevented the events of Sunday evening if she had acted differently or brought Lucy up some other way. But Lucy, unlike her older brothers who had now left home, had never been easy to handle. I don’t even know if she was a virgin, Gwen realised as she picked up her handbag. But Lucy had just had her seventeenth birthday and Gwen wasn’t sure if it was any of her business. The boys had done well for themselves, like their absent father whom she had long since divorced. At one point she had wondered if Lucy was employable but she had found herself a job in a hairdresser’s and seemed to enjoy the training.

  ‘I’m going for a walk,’ she told the two women who sat in silence in the living-room. ‘I won’t be long. Is there anything you want, Lucy?’

  Lucy shook her head. It was as if her mother didn’t exist. The bruises were healing, they had not been as bad as they appeared initially, but it was obvious the shock had not yet worn off. When she’s over this, if she ever gets over it, we’ll talk, Gwen decided. For now there was nothing she could do. Any attempt to touch Lucy had been brushed off. There seemed to be no way in which to comfort her. Alone with Jenny, the WPC, Lucy might feel less inhibited and therefore more inclined to talk.

  She walked down from the house towards the sea. On the Promenade she punched out Laura Penfold’s number on her mobile phone, hoping that she would be at home. Unlike Gwen she didn’t have a job, although Gwen had taken the week off from the building society where she worked. ‘Hello, Laura,’ she said with relief. ‘I’ve got a problem, can you spare me a few minutes?’

  ‘Of course I can. Where are you?’ Laura heard traffic and the sound of the sea sucking at pebbles.

  ‘Half way to your place.’

  ‘Then come straight here.’

  Laura waited, wondering what had caused her self-contained, capable friend to seek her advice. Since Gwen’s husband had run off with someone else she had found full-time employment and kept the house and family together until the boys had left home. Only Lucy was left. Lucy then, Laura decided as she got out things for coffee in her cramped kitchen in the small, three-bedroomed fisherman’s cottage where she and Trevor had somehow managed to bring up their own three children. It was in a back street with no view other than similar cottages that were, built in close proximity to withstand the winter gales and onslaughts from the sea before the stone barrier was put in place to try to contain it.

  ‘You look dreadful,’ Laura said when she opened the door to let Gwen in. ‘Come and sit down and have a coffee.’

  ‘It’s Lucy,’ she began once Laura had handed her a cup of coffee. ‘I just don’t know what to do, Laura. I can’t find the right things to say.’ She shook her head as she realised her own stupidity. ‘Of course, you don’t know. How could you?’ No one does except us and the police, and him, Gwen was thinking. She took a deep breath. ‘She was raped.’ It was the first time she had acknowledged the deed out loud.

  ‘Dear God.’ Laura’s face whitened. ‘Poor Lucy. Have they caught the man?’

  ‘No. And she can’t tell them much.’ And then it all poured out. It was such a relief to tell someone who was not a police officer. ‘She was supposed to be meeting Sam Jago and that’s who I thought she was with. When she didn’t come home by ten-fifteen – ten was the time her father had arranged to phone her and she always made sure she was there for his calls – I rang Joyce. Neither she nor Sam had seen Lucy all day.

  ‘I didn’t know what to do. I mean, the police wouldn’t have done anything, not right away because she’s seventeen, but I was worried sick.’ Gwen explained how Lucy had arrived home. ‘I rang the police immediately. It was awful, she had to have tests and things. You’d think she’d been humiliated enough.’

  ‘It has to be done,’ Laura said gently.

  ‘I know.’ And for the first time Gwen Chandler began to cry.

  ‘Please don’t tell anyone,’ she said when she was calmer. ‘It was in the paper on Tuesday and the Cornishman’ll carry a report on Thursday, but they’re not allowed to print her name.’

  ‘Of course I won’t say anything,’ Laura reassured her, feeling much as Gwen did, that there was little she could offer in the way of comfort.

  When Gwen had gone, Laura wanted nothing more than to ring Rose. She would not break her word but she, too, needed a friendly ear. But Rose was going to a funeral that afternoon, it would be unfair to burden her with another problem even if she couldn’t say what it was.

  The subjects both for the class and her pupils’ homework had been planned. Feeling pleased with some of the photographs she had taken on Monday, Rose decided she had time to show them to Barry and find out which of them he wanted. The old-fashioned bell tinkled as she pushed open the shop door. There was no sign of Barry, and a woman she had never seen before stood behind the counter serving two German tourists with maps of the area.

  ‘Can I help you?’ she enquired with a smile as she handed the tourists their change and their goods in a striped paper bag. They now stood to one side looking at postcards.

  ‘I was hoping to see Barry actually.’

  ‘Ah, he’s over at Camborne. Is it important?’

  ‘Not really. Will you tell him Rose called in and ask him to give me a ring? And would you mind giving him these photographs, please?’ She handed over a padded envelope.

  ‘Of course. Does he have your number?’

  ‘Yes.’

  The woman frowned. ‘You’re not Rose Trevelyan, are you?’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘You’re the one who does all the notelets and things. He’s told me about you.’

  Has he indeed, Rose thought. But he hasn’t mentioned you. Which was odd, since Barry normally discussed his every move with Rose.

  ‘You paint as well, I believe.’

  ‘Yes.’

  Another customer had entered the shop. ‘Nice to have met you. I’ll pass on the message.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Rose said goodbye and squeezed past the Germans who were blocking the doorway.

  Barry telephoned not long after she arrived home. ‘I’m still at Camborne,’ he said, ‘but I got your message.’

  ‘Indeed. So who’s the lady?’

  ‘Didn’t I tell you?’

  ‘No, you didn’t, or I wouldn’t be asking.’ She vaguely recalled him mentioning he had taken out an advert in the local paper but hadn’t imagined he would actually take someone on.

  ‘Her name’s Daphne Hill. I’ve taken her on on a full time basis.’

  ‘Good for you. It’s about time. Tell me about her.’ Maybe now Barry would find the time for a hobby.

  ‘She lives somewhere out near Madron, but she’s got a car. Her children have left home and she was bored and wanted a job.’

  Rose could understand that. And Barry had been sensible in his choice. Older women tended to be more reliable, more grateful for employment, and with a grown up family there was not the problem of school holidays or sick children to care for. Rose, with her artist’s eye, could have described her exactly; full-figured, handsome-featured, smartly dressed, short fair hair, make up a little on the heavy side and plenty of costume jewellery. A woman who believed in making an effort to dress well for work. ‘So what’ll you do with your ne
w found freedom?’

  ‘I haven’t decided yet, well, apart from some decorating, and, if you’re up for it, I could do with some help in choosing new furniture.’

  ‘I’d love to help. There’s nothing nicer than spending other people’s money. It’ll have to be next week, though.’

  ‘Next week? Good God woman, I haven’t even picked the paint yet. Next month, more like it.’

  ‘That’s fine. Look, Barry, I’ll have to go, it’s Phyllis’s funeral this afternoon.’

  ‘Sorry, I forgot. I’ll speak to you soon and let you know about the photographs.’

  Rose glanced at the small carriage clock on the mantlepiece. It was time to change before she went to collect Doreen.

  The weather was far from funereal. The sun shone and birds sang in the trees surrounding the graveyard. Their dark coloured clothing was uncomfortably warm as Rose and Doreen walked along the path to the small church. Organ music could be heard from inside. The church was almost full. Phyllis Brown had lived in the area all her life and had known many people although none had been close friends. Only Doreen had taken pity on the woman who was renowned for her sharp tongue, her amazing organisational skills, her obsessive church attendances before her illness, and her pride. Nathan was illegitimate but Phyllis had given birth to him then held up her head and got on with life, uncaring of what people thought forty years ago – when illegitimacy had been considered shocking and a stigma to both mother and child. As if to make up for her one aberration she had turned to religion and strived for a life of cold, clean purity. She had expected the same of her son who had remained at home with her. When she became ill he did everything for her except the things which required the services of the district nurse. He had given up his job on a farm in order to do so. Rose noticed him at the front of the church, hands clasped between his knees, his head bent. It was unclear whether he was praying or crying.

  The coughing and rustling stopped as the coffin-bearers entered and walked slowly down the aisle. They placed the remains of Phyllis Brown on the trestle in front of the altar and left unobtrusively.

  Rose joined in the service enjoying listening to the Cornish voices rising and falling as they sang the hymns. She was aware that Nathan’s lips didn’t move, that he seemed to see or hear nothing.

  They followed the coffin to the graveside and the clergyman spoke the ritualistic words. Automatically, Nathan picked up a handful of dirt and threw it onto the sturdy coffin which had been lowered into the ground. There was no sign of emotion on his almost unlined face.

  He must take after his father, Rose thought, watching him. Phyllis had been tall and thin, her son was short and stocky with the swarthy colouring of a Cornishman whose family went back many generations.

  People began to file away. Nathan had left the arrangements to his aunt, Emily, who had not thought to organise food and drink back at the house. In her eighties, coping with the other arrangements and seeing to Nathan had been more than enough for her. Belatedly, she had rung the landlord of the pub nearest to the church and asked if he could provide some sandwiches. ‘I’m going back to Truro tomorrow,’ she told Doreen who had gone over to speak to her and introduce her to Rose. ‘Can you keep an eye on him?’

  Nathan stood staring down into the open grave, aware that the grave-diggers were waiting to fill it in. In the peaceful, pretty surroundings it seemed incongruous that a bright yellow bulldozer stood waiting to do the job.

  ‘Course I will, maid, don’t ’e worry about that. Will he stay on at the house?’

  ‘Yes. Phyllis owned it. From what I can gather from her papers she’s left everything to him. He’ll be all right.’

  Rose, watching him, thought it would be a while before he was. Nathan’s whole body shook and he had not spoken a word to anyone. How must he feel to be on his own after forty years? she wondered. Doreen had told her there were no girlfriends, no friends at all. ‘She won’t let ’im take no one home. Rules ’im with a rod of iron, she does,’ she had once said. ‘He goes along to church of a Sunday but he don’t believe, he only does it to keep her quiet. It’s no life for a man, Rose, take my word for it.’

  Would he, now that he had some freedom, make up for the past? Doreen would certainly keep her informed. ‘Nice to have met you, Mrs Davey,’ Rose said. Phyllis’s sister wasn’t showing any signs of grief but the elderly often didn’t, they just took death in their stride knowing that it would soon be their turn.

  ‘Come back and have some tea if you’re not going to the pub,’ Doreen said. ‘My Cyril will be gladdened to see you.’

  ‘Just a quick cup. I’ve got my classes tonight.’ Rose was surprised at the sadness she felt. Phyllis may have been a sharp-tongued woman but she had done what she thought was best for her son and, seemingly, had never strayed from the path of virtue after that one mistake which had changed her life.

  There wasn’t time to do much more than make a few telephone calls and change into jeans before she left the house again.

  In the winter the gallery annexe was draughty but now the evening sun streamed in through the high windows and emphasised the dust motes floating in the air. Despite her sadness at Doreen and Nathan’s loss, the class went smoothly and her star pupil of the moment, Joyce Jago, had brought in an excellent piece of work. It was a general class. Rose taught the basics of various forms of art using different materials, but she took Joyce aside that evening. ‘Look, have you thought about concentrating on abstracts? You’re good, you know. Your use of colour and application of paint is excellent. I can put you in touch with someone who can help you more than I can.’

  ‘Thanks, Rose, but it’s just for fun. I enjoy your classes.’ Joyce sighed.

  Rose was disappointed but she understood not everyone shared her passion. ‘Is anything the matter?’

  ‘Children. Who’d have them?’

  ‘Sam?’

  ‘Yes. She’s so quiet lately and I can’t get her to talk to me. We used to be so close. Her father says it’s her age, but she’s seventeen, Rose, not fourteen. Something’s bothering her, I just wish she’d tell me what it is.’ Joyce was not ready to admit that the police had paid them a visit. A female officer had assured her that Sam wasn’t in trouble, they merely wanted some information from her. Joyce had guessed Lucy was somehow involved but Sam was not prepared to discuss it.

  And before she could stop herself, Rose was saying, ‘Would you like me to talk to her?’

  ‘Would you?’ The relief faded from Joyce’s face. ‘But she’s only met you once, what excuse could you give?’

  ‘I expect I’ll think of something.’ And with that on her mind Rose walked home.

  The following morning Laura rang. ‘Have you seen the Cornishman?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes. Which bit of it?’

  ‘Bottom of page one and continued on page two.’

  ‘The rape?’ It had upset Rose that someone so young had been subjected to such an ordeal. David, and her few subsequent lovers, had always treated her with respect. ‘Why?’ Then she remembered that Jack had asked if she’d read Tuesday’s edition of the Western Morning News. Was the girl someone she knew?

  ‘What do you mean, why?’

  ‘Laura, you didn’t ring me up just to ask if I’d read that bit. I know you. There’s something else, isn’t there?’ The girl was seventeen, the same age as Joyce Jago’s daughter. Surely it wasn’t Sam. Please, God, no, she thought before realising that it didn’t make it any better whoever the girl had been. ‘Shall I come over?’

  ‘Can you spare the time?’

  ‘Not really, but you sound as if you need to talk.’

  ‘I know the girl,’ Laura said almost as soon as Rose arrived. ‘And her mother. I just can’t believe it. Hasn’t Jack said anything?’

  ‘No.’ But Rose understood why. The victim’s name had to be kept confidential, which was why she wouldn’t dream of asking Laura who it was.

  ‘There’s more to it, I’m sure. Gwen said … shit.’
Laura bowed her head. Her hair swung around her face as she held her face in her hands. ‘Oh, Rose, I promised I wouldn’t say anything.’

  ‘You know nothing you tell me will go any further.’

  Laura sighed. ‘The girl is a friend of Samantha Jago. They were supposed to be together.’

  Lucy Chandler, Rose thought, it has to be her. Joyce had mentioned her name and, now she thought about it, Laura knew Gwen Chandler. ‘Sam’s involved?’ Then Joyce had cause for concern. Her daughter might even know who the rapist was if Lucy had confided in her. ‘Joyce wants me to speak to Sam.’ One event seemed to be touching the lives of many people.

  ‘Whatever you do don’t mention what I’ve told you.’

  ‘Of course not. Look, I’d better go, Laura, I’m trying to get everything straight for tomorrow.’

  She stayed another half hour but needed to get her things together for the exhibition.

  At a quarter-to-five on Friday morning Rose was standing in her favourite place in the sitting-room window, drinking coffee as the sun rose higher. Sometimes, as the purple clouds of night turned into day, there would be overlapping layers of pink cloud which turned gold as they spread over the bay. Not so that morning. In a clear sky a half disc of red pushed slowly up from the horizon, its mirror image reflected in the water. As it rose higher, the full globe gradually becoming visible, its reflection took on the shape of a cone with golden ripples which elongated as the earth moved a few more degrees towards the sun. I must paint that, she thought, although with the changes coming so rapidly it would be difficult to capture. Rose inhaled deeply to fight off the nervousness she felt. Yes, it was wonderful to be having another exhibition but she was secretly afraid of adverse criticism; she still did not have the confidence to ride it out and trust her own instincts.

  By six-thirty she was on her way and enjoying the experience of an almost empty road. Now and then she overtook a slow moving farm vehicle or an early bus but it wasn’t until she reached Liskeard that commuter traffic, such as it was, began to build up.