Dave jumped out of the driver’s seat and shook his head as he glanced at the sky. Low, grey cloud was massed as far as the eye could see. There would be no let up that day.
‘I’m surprised you came,’ Rose said as she stood in the doorway of the shed out of the rain.
‘There isn’t much more to do and it’s quite sheltered back there. And I’ve brought a petrol driven saw.’
Rose nodded. With the back of the house on one side and the granite cliff the other he wouldn’t get too wet. ‘Tea or coffee?’
‘Neither, thanks. I want to get done quickly as possible, I’ve a few other things to do before I can start the job in Penzance.’
‘What about your regulars?’ Rose asked as he lifted his tools from the back of the can.
‘I’ve worked it out. I can still manage to fit them in, especially now that the days are so long.’
Within minutes the noise of the saw shattered the peace of the morning. Rose went back to the shed.
Stacked against one wall were several canvases which had been blocked in. One, which had received more work than the others, showed a square built church on a bleak, gorse covered hillside and a scattering of granite cottages below it. Finishing it would be her next project.
The sound of sawing finally stopped. Dave appeared from around the back of the house wheeling a barrow full of logs. He had promised to clear away all the rubbish but Rose had said she would keep the wood to burn in the winter. He stacked the logs on top of some others already piled at the side of the shed. ‘It’s all done. Want to take a look?’
She did so, thanking him for what he had done. She paid him and wished him and Eva well for the future. Dave got into the van, started the engine and reversed down the drive. Rose stood watching him and waved when he reached the bottom.
Something’s wrong, she thought as she went upstairs to get a warm jacket, he looks worried. But for the moment Doreen took priority. It was a week since Phyllis Brown’s funeral and Rose knew that this would be the hardest time for Doreen, when the reality hit her. Apart from weekends, Wednesday afternoon was the only time Doreen was not out cleaning. Rose had rung to make sure she’d be in.
‘Come on over as soon as you can, maid,’ Doreen had said. ‘I’m in need of a bit of company.’
It was just after two when Rose arrived. Since the day they had married, Doreen and Cyril had lived routine lives, or as routinely as possible when Cyril worked shifts in the mine. Since his retirement the pattern of their lives had become more rigid. ‘It’s the only way I can keep on top of things,’ Doreen had told Rose although Rose suspected that the strict timetable somehow compensated them both for Cyril’s redundancy and the loss of pride he had suffered when no other work was available. On Wednesdays they sat down to a cooked meal at twelve thirty, a meal which Cyril had prepared in her absence. It had taken him a long time to accept that now he was not the bread-winner he ought to help around the house. He had finally learnt to serve up meat and vegetables as expertly cooked as those which his wife had always prepared.
Rose parked in the road and pushed open the gate at the front of the bungalow. The small front garden contained a blaze of flowers which had benefitted from the rain and exuded a mixture of scents. She walked around to the back door and tapped on the glass. Behind her Cyril’s vegetables stood in military rows. The runner beans, attached to poles, had a mass of red flowers and some of the beans were already forming.
‘Come in out of that rain, Rose. You can’t tell from one minute to the other what it’ll do next.’
Rose took off her jacket and shook it. Doreen hung it on a hook on the door. The kitchen was warm and smelt of pork but there was no sign of any dishes. The fittings were old-fashioned but every surface was clear and still damp from Doreen’s dishcloth. Seated at the kitchen table, Cyril was half-hidden behind a newspaper. Opposite him sat Nathan Brown.
‘We made ’en a bit of dinner,’ Doreen explained.
‘Nice to see you, Rose, you’re looking as good as ever.’ Cyril put down the paper, pleased by her company. He had never known what to say to Nathan. ‘I expect Doreen’s about to put the kettle on?’ He smiled at his wife.
‘You know perfectly well I always do that, Cyril, there’s no need to be showing me up. Sit down, Rose.’
It always surprised Rose when she saw Cyril without his cap. He looked years younger when his still thick hair was on display. ‘How are things with you, Nathan?’
‘I dunno. I can’t get used to ’er not being there.’
‘It takes time. It’s only a week.’
‘You listen to Rose. She do know, she lost her man,’ Doreen said as she got out tea cups.
‘I heard you’re staying on at the house. Won’t you find it a bit big?’ It was, like many older houses in the area, built of granite. It stood in a terrace and was reached by a short flight of steps from the pavement and a path with steeply sloping lawns on either side of it. There were three bedrooms, a large front room and a dining-room. In Nathan’s situation she would have found somewhere smaller and cosier and easily manageable. But when David died I knew I could never leave my house, Rose recalled. Perhaps Nathan felt the same way.
‘I’ll manage. Doreen says I ought to get someone in to do for me but I don’t know as I can afford it yet. The lawyer’s going to have a word with me next week.’
‘Don’t take on, Nathan. The house is paid for, it’s yours now and there’s a bit of money put by. You won’t starve, take it from me. Besides, you’re free to find work now. Why don’t you see if they need you back at the farm?’
Rose was aware that Nathan had received a small benefit payment as a full time carer. That would have stopped with Phyllis’s death. She had no idea of his financial situation although Doreen seemed to. She hid a smile. There was little information to which Doreen wasn’t privy, no matter how private it was supposed to be.
‘Take my advice, Nathan, start looking right away. It’ll give you something to do and take your mind off your mum.
‘He’s not been hisself at all,’ she added turning to Rose as if the forty-year-old man was no more than a child.
And nor have you, Rose thought, catching the fleeting expression of pain which crossed Doreen’s face. She couldn’t make Nathan out. Despite his recent bereavement there was an expression of quiet determination on his face. Doreen seemed to be worrying unnecessarily. But it was early days, a time of numbness; there would be worse to come. She did not suggest that he saw a doctor as she had done after David died. After ten days and at Laura’s insistence, Rose had succumbed and seen her GP. She had tried to drown her sorrow in wine but it had only exacerbated it. Nathan, loner that he was, would come to terms with his loss in his own way.
Rose accepted the tea Doreen handed her. It was dark and strong and had been made with loose leaves. Nathan sipped his tea with his right hand, his left was resting on his knees. Had there been a woman, Rose thought, or even some friends, it might have been different but Nathan Brown had spent all of his forty years devoted to his mother, a hard task-master from what Doreen had told her. What a gap it must have left in his life. I’m here to comfort Doreen, not Nathan, she reminded herself. But he had worn well and looked several years younger than the forty he had already lived. ‘The fête went off well, how much money did it make?’
‘Just over a thousand pounds. There’ll be a report in the Cornishman tomorrow.’ Doreen’s pride was obvious. She deserved to feel proud, she had put much work into it.
‘That’s an awful lot of money.’
‘I know, but we were selling raffle tickets beforehand and we had some very generous prizes donated, including a day trip to the Scillies for two on the boat. Terrible about that poor girl, wasn’t it? Has Jack said anything to you?’
‘No, not really.’
‘I know, you can’t talk about it. I just hope they catch ’en. Rape. I ask you, no one’s safe any more. And I’ll tell you what, I’ve heard a rumour that someone from round here w
as attacked, another girl. Helen Trehearne I believe her name is.’
‘Doreen.’ Cyril glared at his wife. It might not be true and he did not like to hear such gossip.
So Doreen also knew. That was the name Jack had mentioned. ‘What makes you say that?’
‘I know the Trehearnes. Good family. And Helen’s a good girl, not like some of them nowadays. The police were outside her house the other day and she hasn’t been at school this week. That Helen’s a strong maid, she won’t hide her head in shame and keep it a secret. I know I’m not far out, not if what her mother told Mrs Freeman is true.’
Cyril shook his head. There was no stopping Doreen. ‘Shall we have some more tea? Nathan, another cup for you?’
‘No. I’d best be off.’ He stood, his hands in his jacket pocket. He seemed to be trembling. ‘Nice bit of dinner, thanks’ he said as Doreen let him out of the back door.
‘I can’t imagine what’ll become of that one,’ Doreen commented when he had gone. ‘He don’t make no effort, that’s his trouble. Always relied on Phyllis, you see. That’s why he needs a job, without her to tell ’im what to do he’ll be lost.
‘Cyril, I do believe it’s stopped raining.’
Cyril peered out of the window. ‘I think you’re right. I might as well tidy the beans.’
To Rose the garden looked immaculate but the Clarkes had their own way of doing things. Doreen wanted him out of the way and Cyril was more than pleased to be so.
‘Now, tell us what you know,’ Doreen said as she leant on the table, her chin in her hands.
But Rose could not break her promise to Jack. As much as she liked Doreen and valued her as a friend she knew that anything she said would be repeated. Instead she turned the conversation to Phyllis and learnt a little more about the woman’s personality.
No wonder Nathan’s like he is, she thought as she drove home beneath the grey sky. The rain had stopped but the roads were still wet. It was a respite, no more than that, it would rain again later.
Before she reached Newlyn she had thought of a way in which she might be able to speak to Samantha Jago without arousing her suspicions. Rose rang her at five and was rewarded by an affirmative reply to her request.
It was dry when she left the house although she could smell the damp soil, and droplets of water still glistened on the grass. The earlier rain had cleared the air, it was fresh and heady as she made her way along the Promenade before turning off for the gallery where Samantha Jago was waiting outside. ‘My goodness, you’re keen.’ Rose had not been certain she would turn up.
‘Am I dressed all right?’ Sam was wearing a long, black skirt, clumpy shoes and a top which left an inch of midriff exposed.
‘Of course. It’s only your face they’ll be interested in.’ Over the telephone Rose had asked Sam if she would be prepared to model for the class, head and shoulders only, in return for a small fee. The girl had great bone structure.
‘I feel embarrassed already.’
‘Well, don’t. You’ll be fine.’ Rose unlocked the door. ‘Come on, we’ve got time for a cup of tea before the others arrive.’ She plugged in the kettle and dropped teabags into two chipped mugs. ‘Your mum seems a bit worried about you, Sam. Is everything all right?’
Sam reddened. ‘Not really. I think one of my friend’s is in trouble. The police came to see me but I’m not sure why and Lucy won’t return my calls. We’ve been friends since infants’ school and it hurts that she’s dropped me for Jason Evans.’
‘Surely things aren’t that bad?’ Rose was referring to the friendship, Sam obviously didn’t know what had happened to Lucy.
‘They are to me. Nobody understands.’
Rose sighed. How much the young took for granted. They assumed they were the only ones who could love or be hurt or even have a sex life. ‘What else is bothering you, Sam?’
‘Will you promise you won’t say anything?’
‘You have my word.’
‘I think Lucy’s been raped. No one’s said as much but I read that report in the paper. I was supposed to be with Lucy at the time. Anyway, after the police came and she wouldn’t speak to me it just seemed to add up. I wish I could help her in some way.’ She bowed her head. ‘I think she lied to me. She said she was meeting Jason and that she was using me as an excuse because her mother doesn’t like him. It just seems so feeble now.’
It struck Rose as odd, too. Surely no seventeen-year-old who earned her own living needed a friend to cover for her.
‘What time do we start?’ Sam had heard voices in the hall.
‘Almost immediately. Come with me and I’ll explain what I want you to do.’
Rose led her into the large studio and began arranging the stacked seats into a semi-circle. In front of them she placed easels then decided where best to seat the girl.
Sam turned out to be a good model. Perhaps her preoccupation enabled her to sit for the first hour with hardly, a movement, her profile to the class as they quietly drew it. Rose, from a different perspective, sketched her three-quarter face. ‘Okay, I think that’s long enough. We’ll take a break now.’ They always stopped for coffee half way through the class.
The silent concentration was broken. Chairs scraped and conversations broke out as people began comparing their work.
‘Thank you, Sam. We all appreciate your sitting for us. Do you want to stay until the end or would you rather leave?’
‘I’ll go if you don’t need me any more.’
Rose took her to one side and pushed a ten pound note into her hand. It had been worth it. Rose had enjoyed sketching her and she had found out as much as she wanted to know.
‘Right, let me see what you’ve done this evening then I’ll look at what you’ve managed at home this week.’
No one had quite captured the essence of Sam although Joyce had managed to portray the wistfulness in her face. It had been a worthwhile exercise, one conducted with only herself and Joyce knowing the reason behind it.
When the class finished, she put Joyce’s mind at rest by telling her that Sam was upset because Lucy seemed to favour her boyfriend’s company over her own. She made no mention of the rape.
Satisfied, Dave Fox pushed his plate away. Eva had cooked a delicious meal. She had told him how unsuccessful she had been in finding work and he’d tried to reassure her that something would eventually turn up. ‘Don’t worry about the money, Eva. Living as we do we don’t spend much. Better you get a job you enjoy rather than taking one for the sake of it.’ He smiled and reached for her hand. ‘Don’t look so glum. You’re a winner, you know, you’ll get there in the end. Look what you’ve survived already.’
Eva felt near to tears. Never had she thought she could be so happy with a man but there was a shadow hanging over it all. ‘Dave, please tell me where you were on that Sunday night.’
‘Why is it so important to you?’
She pulled her hand away. Surely he must have some idea why she kept asking him. ‘I just need to know, that’s all. I thought we’d agreed never to have any secrets. I’ve told you all there is to know about me, about my family and John.’
‘Likewise.’
Eva nodded. Dave had explained that his marriage had gone wrong because his wife was more of a socialite than he was. ‘Unlike me, Sarah was into dinner parties and attending all the local functions where the same crowd of people gathered,’ he had admitted. ‘She was always wanting me to better myself, whatever that might mean. Nothing I did pleased her. I’d had it. I suddenly realised that freedom was more important than appearances. I bought the van and came down here and gave her a divorce. And do you know it’s the first time since childhood I’ve really felt happy. Strange when money once meant something to me. And now I’ve got you.’
But Eva had never met any of his family. She only had Dave’s word that his reasons for leaving were as he had told her. Maybe there was something far more sinister behind his move to Cornwall. Damn him, she thought, damn him for making me feel l
ike this. One simple question. If she had the answer she knew she would be either truly happy or completely devastated.
The persistent double ringing finally penetrated Jack’s consciousness. Wondering if he had overslept and someone was phoning from work to find out where he was he reached out and picked up the receiver. There was no sunlight to give him an approximation of the time, only the steady hiss of rain as it fell onto the paving stones of the small patio area outside his bedroom window. ‘Hello?’ He half sat up. His alarm clock told him it was ten minutes to seven. In another ten minutes it would have woken him. He depressed the button to prevent it going off and listened to the news he hoped he would never hear. If gloomy daylight had not penetrated the bedroom curtains he would have believed it to be a nightmare. ‘I’ll be there as soon as possible.’ He replaced the receiver.
With no time for coffee, Jack showered and shaved quickly, threw on the clothes he had worn the previous day and went out to the car. Rain pounded metallically on its roof and rivulets of water ran down the road, nestling into the kerbs before disappearing into drains. Ahead the sea was a turbulent green. Don’t let it be true, he thought as he started the engine, knowing that it had to be.
Belinda Greenwood was short and plump with grey hair cut like a man’s. She was in her seventies and lived alone. Jack studied her. Had she been born some decades later she might well have lived openly with another female. As it was, her dog, truffle, was her only companion. Winter or summer, no matter what the weather, she walked him several miles in the morning and another mile at night. Jack’s eyes dropped to the large animal sitting obediently at her feet. It looked too old for such exercise, but so did its mistress.
Killed in Cornwall Page 8