Killed in Cornwall

by Janie Bolitho

  Rose was surprised at the offer but agreed. They began the climb up the hill. Rose regretted having sat down as her legs were now protesting at more effort but she would soak in the bath later.

  ‘I heard you’re no longer with Jason,’ Rose said to break the silence as they passed the Red Lion. The harbour, to their left, glinted in the evening sunshine.

  Lucy nodded but didn’t speak because just then a car stopped on the opposite side of the road.

  ‘Lovely evening,’ Doreen Clarke said as she stuck her head out of the driver’s window.

  Rose was about to respond when she noticed the passenger. The expression of panic on his face was so fleeting that she wasn’t sure it had been there at all.

  ‘I’ve just taken Nathan up to Harry Trevean’s place. Looks like he’ll be starting work there. Nathan’s car’s been playing up so it’s in the garage and as it’s such good weather we came back the long way so’s we could admire the view.’ Doreen was staring pointedly at Lucy, waiting for an introduction.

  ‘This is Lucy Chandler,’ she said. ‘Lucy, this is my friend, Doreen Clarke and Nathan Brown.’

  Lucy said a polite hello but there was no chance for further conversation because two cars were behind Doreen’s waiting for her to drive on. One of the drivers tooted his horn. Doreen put the car into gear, gave a quick wave and disappeared down the hill.

  ‘I’ll just get a cloth,’ Rose said when they were in the larder. The sewing-machine held a layer of dust. It was many years old but a good one, made from wood and steel in the days before plastic was popular. Together they carried it to the back seat of Rose’s car then drove back the way they had walked.

  Gwen was ready to leave when they arrived so they went straight off.

  ‘I’m really grateful,’ Gwen told her as she and Lucy got the machine out of the car. ‘I’ll look after it and bring it back the minute I’ve finished.’

  ‘There’s no rush. As I said, I haven’t used it in years.’

  Rose went home and ran a bath. She sank beneath the water and lay there for some time. ‘There’s only one way to find out,’ she said aloud. ‘If you don’t know, ask.’

  Eva’s smile was infectious. ‘Good news?’ Dave asked when he came home from work.

  ‘I’ve got a job.’

  He put the kettle on while she explained how she had managed to talk the landlord of a Penzance pub into giving her a trial. ‘One of the staff left unexpectedly and I happened to walk in at the right time. Perhaps our luck is changing. Well, I said I’d do anything, serving behind the bar, waitressing, whatever they wanted. They do lunches and dinners and it’s always busy apparently. The only thing is I’ll have to do some evening shifts.’

  Dave reached for her and stroked her hair. It seemed as animated as she was. ‘That’s fine by me. You must live the way you want to. Now, are you coming with me this evening?’

  ‘Yes.’ She didn’t know how he did it; all day his work was physical and he could still spend the evenings renovating the barn. It was gradually taking shape but even to Eva it was obvious there were many more months of hard work before it was habitable and a lot more work after that. But she would help him. Under his directions she was sure there were things of which she would be capable. All that marred the future was the fact that a murderer was out there somewhere and that she and the police had believed it possible that Dave might have committed it. That, and the question of the robbery at the Johnson’s bungalow.

  Barry Rowe came backwards down the stepladder, a paint tray and roller in one hand. He stood back with satisfaction and admired his achievement through his glasses which were spotted with paint. Already the flat looked brighter and cleaner. He had decided upon plain walls as the rooms were small, and light, cheerful colours ranging through white gloss to primrose and pale peach emulsion. Daphne Hill had been kind enough to bring him some colour charts which she’d picked up during one of her lunch breaks. Already he could picture the new furniture; pale pine or some other light wood and patterned curtains which incorporated the colours of the rooms. And new bed linen.

  The shop bell rang. Barry cursed. He had forgotten to tell the company that there was a back entrance to the flat. Downstairs waited the man who had come to sell him a new kitchen. Barry had hoped to have Rose there to give him advice but he had been assured that the representative would offer a plan to make the most of whatever space was available.

  Barry laughed. I’m actually enjoying this, he thought as he went to let the man in.

  Only later, when he had paid a hefty deposit and cleaned his paintbrushes did he give Daphne and Rod another thought. She had told him that an Inspector Pearce had been out to see Rod. If Jack’s involved, Barry thought, then it’s serious. He liked Daphne and didn’t want to lose her but he feared he would if things turned out badly for Rod Hill.

  He realised it was late, light was fading from the sky, and that he was hungry. It would be nice to eat out, to not bother to cook something, but it was not a pleasure he enjoyed alone and it was too late to ring Rose or anyone else.

  He opened the kitchen window and flapped his hands at the low roof opposite, to no effect. The pair of herring-gulls continued to squawk raucously. At least the noise was not as unbearable as earlier in the year when they were mating. He had had some razor wire placed around his defunct chimney-pot to stop gulls nesting there and wished his neighbours would do the same.

  He cooked scrambled eggs, sausages and beans and sat down to eat hoping that Rose would be free to go to Plymouth with him on Sunday and help him choose the furniture. The old stuff would go to some charity or other.

  The telephone rang just as he picked up his knife and fork. He had been thinking of Rose, it had to be her.

  ‘Hello, Barry, it’s Daphne. Look, I just thought I’d let you know the police have been around here asking questions and they seem satisfied that Rod’s in the clear. I know it could’ve waited until the morning but I’m so pleased. Rod is, too, of course, but he’s a bit down because he’s still afraid people’ll find out about the past. Anyway, we’re having a bit of a do on Saturday night. We’ve decided not to bury our heads in the sand any longer. If people do find out, then so be it. It’s up to them to decide how they feel, not us. So will you come?’

  ‘I’d love to. Thank you.’

  Daphne laughed. ‘Good. It’s daft, really, but we’ve invited neighbours we’ve hardly spoken to. We’ll know you better than we know anyone else.’

  ‘It’ll give me a chance to widen my circle of acquaintances, too.’ It had taken him many years but he was beginning to realise just how limited his life was. When he first met Rose he had hoped for different things. Yes, he still loved her, he always would, but he had to accept that the time for hoping was long gone. I shall certainly go, he decided as he sat down to his cooling food, and I shall go alone. He would order a taxi to take him there and ring for another when it was time to leave.

  Jack Pearce looked at his face in the mirror in the bathroom and hoped that it was the light rather than the way he felt which gave his skin that greyish tinge.

  I ought to phone her, he thought as he splashed cold water into his eyes. I ought to let her know she was right. But how will she feel when she realises we’ve had to speak to Samantha Jago and Lucy Chandler; Lucy, who had already been through enough.

  Jack pushed open the French doors which led to his secluded garden. The people upstairs were rarely at home and they could only overlook him if they happened to be standing in the window. As he had no inclination to sunbathe nude, or to sunbathe at all, it hardly mattered.

  The air was full of the scent of lavender in which numerous bees flitted from stem to stem. The garden had been established long before he moved in and he had made no attempt to alter it. The summer flowering shrubs were now coming into their own and filled the narrow borders with colour.

  He strolled around the perimeter, a glass of beer untouched in his hand. Jason Evans had been interviewed and charged even th
ough his parents had miraculously appeared from somewhere bringing with them a solicitor.

  I will tell her, he decided, it’s only fair. But deep down he was aware it was also an excuse to speak to her. She took a long time to answer.

  ‘Hello?’ Rose was as terse as he had been when she rang him.

  ‘Am I disturbing you?’

  ‘Yes. I was in the bath.’ She did not add that the water was cold and she’d been about to get out.

  ‘We’ve charged Jason Evans,’ he told her without preamble hoping the news would make her more amiable.

  ‘Good heavens.’

  ‘You were right. He and one of his mates have been breaking and entering to make ends meet. They only took small, easily saleable objects, things they could carry without the need of transport. Neither of them has any previous form and it was pure luck they weren’t caught sooner.

  ‘You were right about the girl, Liz. Only she knew nothing about it. She was horrified. She’d innocently told Jason their plans for the day, although she didn’t know that Dave Fox would be on the scene in the morning and therefore assumed he was responsible.

  ‘The thing is, Rose, to give the boy his due, he refuses to implicate Lucy. The night she was raped he broke into a place nearby He claims they’d argued and she went off in a mood and it was only then he decided to do the job. My feeling is that he wanted to use her as his look-out and she refused and that’s why they argued.’

  ‘What’ll happen to her?’ She could probably be charged as an accessory if she had known what Jason was up to and failed to report it.

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Jack, can you just do nothing? I mean, surely she’s learnt her lesson after what happened to her that evening.’

  Jack thought about it. There were some who would say it was poetic justice, if carried a little too far; the criminal becomes the victim of crime. But he was a police officer, if he turned a blind eye to one thing where would it lead in the end? ‘No, Rose, I can’t just do nothing. We’ll speak to her once more. If she denies it then we’ll accept what she says. You’ll just have to trust me.

  ‘Anyway, how’s Evelyn?’

  ‘I’m not sure, really. Dad says she’s very tired and each time I’ve rung she’s been resting. I’m going up next week to see for myself.’

  ‘If there’s anything I can do, such as drive you, you know where I am.’

  ‘Thanks, Jack. And thank you for letting me know about Jason.’

  ‘Are you sure you wouldn’t like a job with the Devon and Cornwall police? We might never have got Evans without the information you gave us.’

  ‘Information?’ Rose was indignant. ‘I bloody well solved the case for you.’ During one of their telephone calls she had finally mentioned the expensive watch Lucy had said Jason had given her. As Rose had suspected, it turned out to be stolen.

  ‘Then I owe you a meal. Fancy a night out soon? Before you go away?’

  ‘I never say no to free food and drink.’

  ‘How about the Seafarer’s on Saturday night?’

  ‘Wonderful. You’re on.’

  ‘I’ll ring you to confirm a time.’

  He didn’t mention Nichola Rolland, Rose thought after she’d hung up. And there was something I didn’t mention either, she realised as she pulled the damp towel closer to her body and went back up to the bathroom to rub almond scented moisturiser into her skin.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  The Wednesday classes seemed to come around so quickly. Rose had decided that they would concentrate on charcoal tonight. She hoped to convey that in this medium fewer lines were more effective, and she had some excellent examples to illustrate that simplicity was the key to a good piece of work.

  Without realising it she had sketched the head and shoulders of Nathan Brown on her notebook. Sticking the pencil behind her ear she decided she needed to talk to Doreen about him before she spoke to Jack. She knew now what it was about that library book that had disturbed her. I’ll pop over tomorrow evening,’ she said, talking aloud as she often did when on her own. It would make no difference to Cyril who would be out watering the plants or searching for invisible weeds.

  It was a dullish sort of day with a stiff breeze. The washing flapped on the line, the sheets as white as the clouds which were beginning to mass and cover the bay. She watered her own plants as there was no direct sun nor any sign of rain, then did some shopping in Newlyn. For some reason she was not in the mood to paint.

  The weekend looks like being as busy as the week has been, she thought as she unlocked the gallery door. There was dinner with Jack on Saturday night to look forward to and a day at the furniture superstores on the outskirts of Plymouth with Barry on Sunday to follow. He had rung to finalise the arrangement. And soon I’ll see Mum again. Her father had agreed that Monday would be a suitable day to arrive. ‘She’ll have had just over a week to recover by then and she’s really looking forward to seeing you. I’ll put her on.’

  On the two occasions upon which Rose had now spoken to Evelyn she had noticed how much weaker her voice had sounded.

  ‘I wish you’d all stop fussing,’ Evelyn had said pretending annoyance but touched by their concern. Rose had passed on her friends’ messages. Now she wanted to judge for herself how well her mother really was.

  ‘Hi.’

  Rose turned around. Joyce Jago stood behind her. She was smiling. ‘I’m glad I caught you early. I just wanted to tell you that Sam seems back to her old self now. She and Lucy have made it up, and I heard that the boy that caused the trouble between them has been arrested.’

  ‘Yes, I heard that, too.’

  ‘Did you?’ Joyce seemed surprised until she remembered that Rose was supposed to be seeing a detective inspector. ‘Anyway, a very nice female officer came to have a word with Sam. I thought that would bring the house down and set her off again but no, she sat down and told me all about it afterwards.’

  Sam had lied for Lucy but even if she had suspected there was more to it than meeting Jason, Rose doubted she knew about his short-lived criminal career.

  ‘Anyway, that seems to be the end of it.’

  ‘Good. Can you give me a hand with the chairs?’

  Thank you Jack, she thought later as she tried, mostly unsuccessfully, to get her point across to the class.

  She walked home slowly, glancing now and then at the sky but it held no clues as to the following day’s weather. In West Cornwall it was a case of waking up and looking out of the window to see what the day would bring. There was a swell on the sea and the tang of salt and seaweed in the air. Rose breathed deeply, clearing her lungs after the stuffy gallery annexe. It was one of those old, high-ceilinged buildings which was draughty and cold in the winter and equally as uncomfortable in the summer. Only the gallery itself had been modernised, the paintings hung amidst glass and chrome.

  The shrill voices of the few remaining children in the playground carried through the air, as did the sound of gulls perched on the railings hoping for scraps of food from people sitting in the shelters. Rose leant on the railings, her canvas bag at her feet. The tide was ebbing, running back over the row of flat boulders that edged the banks of pebbles. Few waders would come to feed now, they had migrated for the summer. An occasional turnstone might be seen, even a ringed plover, hardly discernable amongst the stones but there was no chance of that tonight as there were people on the beach and a dog barking madly as it chased the gulls. On the horizon the sea was the colour of bruising before it began to fade; nearer the shore it was lighter, bluer but the whole was capped with white horses. The wind whipped through her linen jacket and tugged at her hair, carrying with it a strong smell of brine. A trawler was coming home, its beams still spread. Not Trevor, he had only sailed the day before, but someone’s husband or son returning safely. This time. Nichola Rolland had not returned home safely and Lucy Chandler had escaped with her life. Which reminded Rose of her intention to speak to Doreen Clarke in the morning.

&nb
sp; Nathan Brown did not feel like watching the video again. Perhaps it was because he had finally found employment, outdoor work which he enjoyed, had always enjoyed until his mother’s illness had taken it away from him, just as she, when fit, had taken every other pleasure away from him. He was starting to realise just how much he had disliked her.

  I know I’m not an educated man, he thought as he pottered around outside the house dead-heading the ugly hydrangeas which had flowered earlier than usual. His mother had liked them and seemed unconcerned that in the winter there was nothing to see other than their dead-looking spiky twigs. Tomorrow he would cut the sloping lawn. It gave him backache but needed to be done; in the evening if the day was hot. Soon he would be fit again, fit but not worn out as he had been when he was running constant errands for his mother. Soon he would spend his days on the farm come rain or shine and his hands would be encrusted with dirt and he wouldn’t have to listen to that sharp voice admonishing him not to come to the table until his nails were clean. As if they ever could be when you worked on a farm.

  He went through the house carrying the desiccated flower heads and threw them in the bin outside the back door. The house had not been redecorated for as long as he could remember but he had no intention of doing anything about it. What he did intend doing was to sell it, just as it was. Whoever bought it would have their own ideas about paper and paint, and then he would buy somewhere smaller, somewhere without a back-breaking slope of a garden, somewhere where he could grow pretty things and take a woman home without the ghost of his mother watching.

  Knowing he must eat but not feeling hungry, he went back to the dismal kitchen and took out a loaf of bread. Something warm hit his hand as he drew the serrated knife through the crust. It was a teardrop. Nathan was shocked to find he was crying. He knew that no woman would want him because he had no idea at all how to talk to them. He stuffed his knuckles in his mouth to stop the sound of his sobbing from echoing around his drab surroundings.