Killed in Cornwall

by Janie Bolitho

  With each mile her confidence grew. She was not the only artist exhibiting, she wasn’t that renowned. Yet. And Geoff Carter, who seemed to know everyone in the art world, would be there to make introductions, and, as old as she was, she would be grateful for the presence of her parents.

  She arrived at the hotel where she had booked a room, relieved that it had parking spaces, and found Evelyn and Arthur Forbes already there. Too excited to eat, Rose picked at the lunch they insisted upon buying, then they window-shopped in the city centre.

  ‘We never expected to have a famous daughter,’ Arthur said when they returned to the hotel to allow her mother a chance to rest before changing for the evening.

  Rose laughed. ‘Hardly that.’

  ‘But you will be,’ he said with certainty.

  The evening passed so quickly Rose could hardly believed it had happened.

  ‘You’ve sold one already,’ Geoff Carter told her with a grin as he came over to rescue her from a viewer who was monopolising her.

  ‘Which one?’

  ‘The Zennor one.’

  Rose nodded. Landscape with Sea, she had finally called it. No title had seemed apt until she realised that what might seem unimaginative was the best description of all. And it was the second most expensive. The exhibition was due to run for a month, maybe more would sell.

  Empty wine glasses, paper plates and screwed up serviettes littered the tables. The crowd was thinning out. One or two had come for the free food and drink, others were there out of sheer curiosity but the core consisted of art lovers who were either genuinely interested in new work or who were hoping to make a purchase.

  ‘Can I buy you dinner?’ Geoff asked, the invitation obviously including her parents.

  Rose was hungry now, she had ignored the buffet, being too busy talking to eat. ‘Mum? Dad?’

  ‘That’s very kind of you, but we’ll split the bill,’ Arthur told him with a knowing smile for his daughter. Rose ignored it. She wasn’t interested in Geoff in that way.

  They found a surprisingly good restaurant and enjoyed a leisurely meal with decent wine. Rose felt a sense of anticlimax and wondered why she had allowed herself to feel so nervous. Tomorrow she would be home again and a new round of work awaited her.

  They took a taxi back to the hotel. Rose kissed her parents goodnight and went to bed, relieved that their presence meant she had not had to fight off Geoff’s advances and with the knowledge that she would sleep well that night.

  Evelyn and Arthur set off immediately after a late breakfast. Evelyn was pale and looked as if she hadn’t slept well. ‘We’ll make an early start as your mother’s not feeling a hundred per cent,’ Arthur said as he kissed his daughter goodbye. ‘I expect we’ve overdone it a bit. Anyway, we’ll ring to let you know we’ve arrived home safely. And make sure you drive carefully.’

  Rose watched them leave. She hoped her mother was suffering nothing more serious than a summer cold.

  There seemed no point in staying any longer herself. Geoff had said he was calling in at the gallery before he left and had presumably already gone there as they hadn’t seen him at breakfast. Rose paid her bill and set off for home.

  As soon as she arrived home, Rose unpacked her small bag then sat in the garden reading the novel she had not yet had time to finish. It revolved around a man who had murdered his mother and had, so far, got away with it. She understood why he had done so and, wondering why he hadn’t done so sooner, mentally wished him luck. The sun was bright and reflected off the page. Rose closed her eyes. Her head was full of thoughts. There was Barry and his new assistant and his sudden desire to decorate his flat, Nathan with a new life ahead of him, Lucy Chandler who had been attacked and raped. And there was Jack. Jack who seemed to be ignoring her lately. Of course he was busy with the burglaries and now the rape but, knowing it was perverse of her, she still wanted to see him.

  Late in the afternoon she decided to have a walk then reward herself with a drink before she went home to eat. Having got as far as the railway station she decided to continue some way along the new footpath which ran alongside it. The sea was immediately to her right. Tired but relaxed she retraced her footsteps and pushed open the door of the Yacht, a pub opposite the art deco outdoor bathing pool and built at the same time. At the bar she ordered and paid for a glass of wine then scanned the room to see if there was anyone there she knew amongst the customers. She almost spilt her drink when she saw – half hidden by a group of four men – Barry Rowe huddled in a corner with Daphne Hill who, Rose remembered, was married with grown-up children. Could she be the reason for the spending spree, the modern jackets and ties and the plans for redecoration? Not Barry, surely. You’ve a nasty, suspicious mind, my girl, she thought as she turned back to the bar. Neither of them had noticed her and she did not wish to cause embarrassment. It was a peculiar sensation, spotting him with a woman; not jealousy, she had always hoped he would meet someone, but surprise and a touch of disbelief. Do I go over and say hello? she wondered. They looked deep in conversation. She finished her drink quickly and left without either of them having seen her.

  It was now twenty-five to seven. The shop would have closed an hour ago. The logical explanation was that Barry had offered to buy Daphne a drink to mark the end of her first week working for him. Except it was out of character. Half puzzled, half amused, Rose made her way home slowly.

  I almost forgot, she thought, as she stood to clear the table after she had eaten. There was a fête in Hayle tomorrow afternoon, one of numerous such events which took place in the summer in aid of local charities or to help fund a new church roof or playgroup. She had promised Doreen Clarke, one of the organisers, that she would attend, although she doubted that her purchases of home-made chutney or a cake and a raffle ticket would swell the coffers required to redecorate the village hall.

  I might as well see if Barry wants to come with me, she thought, trying to ignore her ulterior motive for phoning. She dialled the number and was surprised when he answered. There were no sounds to suggest he wasn’t alone, nor did he mention where he’d been.

  ‘Yes, why not?’ he said. There was no mention of Daphne Hill either.

  Curiouser and curiouser, she thought as she replaced the receiver. Maybe he’d tell her about it tomorrow.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  On Sunday morning Jack was still working on the Lucy Chandler case. ‘Oh, bugger it,’ he swore as the realisation hit him. Lucy Chandler’s mother had assumed the girl was with her friend Samantha Jago, to whom they had now spoken and Jack had suddenly remembered that Rose knew Samantha’s mother, Joyce Jago. Joyce was one of her pupils and Rose had mentioned her name several times as being one of the few with natural talent. And if Rose knows Joyce Jago there’s nothing to stop her finding out the rest. Please, please let her stay out of it, he prayed.

  They had a list of sex offenders but the profile didn’t fit any of them. ‘Lucy Chandler was in the pub with her boyfriend and they had a row,’ Jack informed his team. ‘She walked off and left him intending to make her way to the bus-stop on the main road, which explains her whereabouts at the time. Our problem is that she won’t give us the boyfriend’s name.’ There was a possibility that he was the rapist and she was protecting him, because it was her mother who had called the police, or there might be another reason.

  ‘Perhaps he’s married. They had a row, she leaves the pub, he follows her in his car and rapes her,’ one of the team suggested.

  ‘It’s possible.’

  Time was passing. A week, in fact, had passed and they weren’t getting anywhere, and they might not proceed at all unless Lucy Chandler was more forthcoming. The WPC hadn’t got anywhere with her but they would have one more try. He was more than aware that she was the victim so they had to tread carefully. And if her account of events was true and she hadn’t seen her attacker, she couldn’t be of much help. But without her assistance they didn’t stand a chance of catching anyone.

  And then at nine
-thirty on Sunday morning the telephone rang. ‘Sir, there’s been another one, about half an hour ago. Not so serious this time, the girl managed to get away but the MO fits.’

  There would be no getting away by lunchtime after all, and no seeing Rose that day either. Despite his problems, Jack was missing her badly.

  For once the weather was perfect for an outdoor gathering. So many fêtes were rained on. Sunshine flooded the countryside as they drove towards Hayle. Light reflected off the estuary as the water flowed out to sea exposing the mudbanks where waders fed in winter. There were none now, only large flocks of gulls huddled in the middle where the mud was raised and the water ebbed slowly around it and a couple of oystercatchers at the edge, their black and white plumage easily identifiable even though their long, orange beaks were sunk deep in the mud. In the winter their numbers would be doubled by others from Iceland and the Faeroes. ‘A parcel,’ Rose said, nodding towards the estuary.

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘I bet you didn’t know the collective noun for oystercatchers is a parcel.’

  Barry stared at her as if she was mad. ‘No, I didn’t, actually’

  They could hear the band as they approached the manor house in whose grounds the fete was being held. Many local dignitaries obliged in this way, opening their grounds to the public to allow charity events to take place. Bunting and banners adorned the trees which lined the drive. Rose followed the home-made signs directing her to a piece of grassland where she could park. Barry’s car was in for repairs and would not be ready until Tuesday.

  The lawns were crowded. The school band, like so many in Cornwall, sounded far more professional than anyone unused to the area might have expected. Most children were taught to play an instrument and schools had their own bands, just as every town and village had its own adult band or choir.

  Stalls had been set up around the perimeter of the lawn. They held home-made goods, local arts and crafts, tombolas and bric-a-brac. Barry led Rose to the first stall. ‘A pound’s worth, please,’ he said as he handed over his money and got Rose to pick five straws from a bucket. Inserted in each was a rolled-up ticket. She pocked them out with the stick she had been given but none ended in a nought or a five.

  ‘Better luck next time,’ the plump, jovial man said as he threw their losing tickets in a bin.

  ‘We’d better say hello to Doreen,’ Rose said. They found her behind a trestle table upon which the raffle prizes were displayed. They watched as she bullied people into parting with their money. Doreen saw them and smiled wanly. She looked tired and sad. The fête would only distract her from the death of her friend for the afternoon. ‘We’ll take a pound’s worth of tickets each,’ Rose told her.

  ‘Good for you, maid. I hope you win. ’Tis hard to get twenty pence out of some of they. Nice to see you, Barry. Are you well?’

  ‘Yes, fine, thanks.’

  ‘Mrs Pascoe’s in a fine state. One of her boys fell over this morning and she was so busy cleaning him up that she forgot about her cakes and two of her sponges were zamzoodled. She’s scraped the brown bits off and iced ’en but she’s afraid for her reputation now. No one can make a sponge like she do. I don’t suppose you’d …’

  ‘Yes, of course.’ Rose smiled at Barry conspiratorially. Message understood, she thought. She’d buy the two cakes sitting unobtrusively at the back of the stall, one iced in virulent pink, the other more tastefully in lemon and white. Laura would be the recipient. She ate anything and everything, especially where sugar was concerned. Admiring the buns and cakes which had not been overcooked, she became aware of someone standing behind her. ‘Dave,’ she said in surprise when she turned around.

  ‘Hello, Mrs Trevelyan. We’re here under Doreen’s orders.’

  ‘Aren’t we all? This is my friend, Barry Rowe. Barry, this is Dave Fox.’ She almost added my gardener but realised it would have sounded patronising or condescending.

  Dave shook Barry’s hand. ‘And this is Eva.’ Beside him stood a stunning woman in her twenties. Her dark brown hair was long but cut in raggedy layers. The waves framed her striking face. Her dark eyes were large and the expression in them hinted at both sadness and laughter. She was endowed with a sexual allure that even another woman couldn’t possibly miss. Her tiers of clothing seemed to have been thrown on with complete disregard for fashion but somehow it worked.

  ‘Dave told me that you’re an artist,’ she said. Her voice was low and deeper than Rose had expected.

  ‘Yes, I am.’ She smiled. ‘Well, we’d better have a proper look around or Doreen’ll never forgive us. Nice to have met you.’

  They stayed for another twenty minutes then went to say goodbye to Doreen. ‘Can I tempt you with another ticket before you go?’

  Rose reached for her purse. Doreen had promised to keep any prize they may win. ‘Is something the matter?’ she asked Barry as they made their way back to the car. ‘You’ve been very quiet today.’

  ‘I’m not sure.’

  ‘Want to talk about it?’

  Barry shrugged then pushed his glasses up his nose. ‘It’s probably nothing.’

  ‘Shall we have a walk then?’ They could drive to the Towans. There were three miles of white, powdery sand stretching all along the shoreline topped by hillocks of sand held together by marram grass. Amongst these dunes were chalets in which some people lived all year around and others used only for their holidays. Even in the height of summer the beach, because of its vast expanse, never seemed crowded. And there were no amenities nearby; no amusement arcades, no ice-cream sellers or cafes, nothing except the breathtaking beauty of unspoiled scenery. But before you reached it there was the run-down harbour area of Hayle to pass through.

  ‘The Towans it is then.’ Barry looked down at his brown laced shoes.

  ‘You can take them off,’ Rose suggested.

  He looked vaguely shocked, as if she’d told him to sunbathe nude. In all the years she had known him he had never exposed more than his forearms.

  She parked at the top of the hill and having no such inhibitions herself, removed her sandals and carried them by the straps. Barry followed her down the narrow, sandy track until they reached sea level. A slight breeze blew in their face and scattered minute grains of sand at their feet. The air was so clear they could see for miles. The turquoise water was edged with a frill of white spume as it ran slowly in and out over the beach. For several minutes they strolled without speaking, enjoying the warmth of the sun on their faces.

  ‘Okay, out with it,’ Rose finally said. There was no one around, only two small figures ahead in the far distance and a couple of families they had left behind. The only sounds were those of the gently lapping water and the scrunch of their footsteps in the wet sand by the tideline, the fine grains of which massaged the soles of Rose’s bare feet.

  ‘It’s Daphne,’ he began.

  For the second time Rose wondered if he was having an affair with her.

  ‘I took her for a drink after work last night. A sort of celebration that she’s done so well in such a short time. Anyway, she chose that moment to come out with her confession.’

  ‘Confession?’ Rose was intrigued but deduced nothing from Barry’s profile.

  ‘Yes. It’s her husband, you see. Before they moved down here he was a teacher but there was some scandal about him and a fifteen-year-old girl. Daphne said all charges were dropped but he knew he couldn’t stay on at his job, there would always be too much speculation, and that he’d never get another one teaching.

  ‘Well, she insisted I knew in case it came out anyway. She was afraid I’d ask her to leave, which of course never crossed my mind.’

  Schoolgirl. Scandal. Surely Daphne’s husband wasn’t the man who had attacked and raped Lucy Chandler? It would be a long line of coincidence: Laura knew Lucy’s mother, Lucy was the friend of Joyce Jago’s daughter and Barry was possibly the employer of a rapist’s wife. But the community was so small and so closely knit that although it seemed improba
ble it certainly wasn’t impossible. However, rape was not the same thing as an affair with an underage girl. At least Daphne had had the courage to be honest with Barry. ‘What’ll you do?’

  ‘Nothing, of course. Anyway, the upshot was that she’s invited us to her house for a drink. I suggested Thursday evening.’

  ‘Both of us?’

  ‘Yes. In your case, reflected glory in knowing an artist is the motive I think, and in mine I imagine she wants me to see that her husband isn’t a monster. Will you come?’

  ‘Yes.’ Nothing would keep Rose away now.

  Dave arrived punctually on Tuesday morning but Rose was surprised to see Eva swing herself down from the passenger seat of the van. She had been intending to apply the pale wash to the wild flower sketches and wondered if Eva expected to be entertained.

  ‘I hope you don’t mind, Mrs Trevelyan,’ she said with a smile. ‘Only it’s such a lovely day and Dave’s going to drop me at the job centre later. I won’t get in your way’

  ‘Would you like a coffee before you start?’ Rose turned to Dave who showed no sign of embarrassment.

  ‘I’d love one, thank you. I’ll just get my stuff out of the van.’ He opened the back doors and took out the chainsaw. He carried it around to the back of the house then joined Rose and Eva in the kitchen. Since his last visit, the daily sunshine and a couple of heavy showers during the nights had already made the grass grow. New shoots stood tall and green amongst the shorter blades and the edges of the bare patches showed signs of new growth.

  Rose placed their coffees on the table and sat down. ‘Did you enjoy the fête?’ she asked.

  ‘Very much.’ It was Eva who answered. ‘So much hard work must go into things like that but I expect Doreen loves it.’

  ‘You know her well?’

  Eva shook her head. ‘No, I’ve only met her a couple of times, but Dave does.’