What every body is saying: DI Tregunna Cornish Crime novel

by Carla Vermaat

  'Is there a problem?' Another five blinks.

  'I hope not,' I say mildly, realising that he's got the wrong end of the stick. Sometimes the most honest and innocent people can behave like the guilty party as soon as they're faced with police officers. It can be difficult to work out whether Gerald Davey is one of them or he has reason to think he is in trouble.

  ‘You are the mentor of Leanne Lobb’s group?’

  'I am.' A small frown settles on his forehead. More blinks.

  'Are you aware that Leanne Lobb isn't at school today, Mr Davey?'

  'I haven't seen her group yet,' he says defensively, blinking again.

  One of the designs on the wall grabs my attention. A bright red spiral with a green dot in the middle. It feels like an endless way down, a bottomless hole, drawing the eye with a haunting effect. I have difficulty pulling my gaze away.

  'I’d like to ask you a few questions about Leanne Lobb, Mr Davey.'

  Five blinks. I wonder if he counts them or isn't even aware of his habit. His long and narrow fingers start fumbling in a pile of papers on his desk, retrieving a pink folder.

  ‘I’m sorry. It's a bit of a mess. ’ Childish pride forms a smile at the corners of his mouth. ‘But I can find this folder everywhere because of its colour.’

  He opens it and slides his thumb down a list. ‘Of course everything is recorded in the computer, but I find it handy to have it on paper too.’ His thumb stops. He frowns, wondering if he has missed something, then adds thoughtfully, 'Oh, yes, Nicky, the girl who answers the phone, asked me about Leanne earlier today.' He scratches his dark stubble as if he’s checking whether he needs a shave.

  ‘May I ask what’s going on, inspector?’

  ‘Leanne Lobb is missing. She didn’t come home last night.’

  Eyes shocked, his face grows pale. ‘Do you mean … is there something wrong? I mean, really wrong? Has her body been found?’

  'She is currently missing,' I say, suspecting his question is raised from the point of view of someone who is a keen watcher of police series on TV.

  'Oh. But that is ... terrible.’

  ‘I'm sure we will find her, Mr Davey.' I give him a smile to take the edge of his shock.

  He stares at the list again. Blinks. ‘How can I help?

  'I have some questions for you.'

  'Yes. Yes of course. Ask. Anything.'

  'We are obviously looking for her, which involves retracing her last known steps. I suppose yesterday afternoon was the last time you saw her?'

  He stares into nothing, not even blinking this time. ‘Every morning the senior staff meet the students as they come through the doors and in the afternoons we escort them to their buses. We do this because we take every opportunity to say something friendly and to be available for support to each of our pupils whenever needed. Our policy.'

  In my day, staff came out to make sure we got on the right buses and that we didn’t annoy the school’s neighbours by running around, yelling loudly and carelessly leaving rubbish that would end up in their gardens. They may call it a friendly school policy nowadays but I doubt there is much difference between then and now.

  'Did you notice something unusual?'

  'With Leanne? No, I don't think so.'

  'She wasn't upset about something? Maybe she had a row with a friend? Or any other … unpleasant encounter?’

  ‘There was nothing that springs to mind.’ He looks up, chooses a pen from a chipped mug and starts clicking it nervously. His blinking rhythm has been disrupted. Replaced. ’I can't think ... I’m sure I would remember if there had been something out of the ordinary.’

  He clicks his pen with short intervals, as if he is sending a message in Morse code. Silent for a few seconds, perhaps formulating a response in his mind, he continues, 'You mean, like she might have been bullied? No. No way. Not Leanne.' He straightens, smiles, finding himself on safer grounds.

  ‘You seem certain.’

  ‘I am.’ He opens a cabinet behind his desk and retrieves a blue ring-binder containing plastic sleeves to protect A-4 sized paper. 'There are others, of course, which is inevitable in an environment with 900 pupils. But we all keep a close eye on that, inspector. We aim to stop it before it escalates. Before more serious harm is done. Of course, we can’t rule it out, but we do our best.’

  Opening the blue binder, he turns the pages quickly, stopping when he reaches the one he is looking for. He pulls out a photo and lays it on his desk. It shows the same background as the current wall, with two girls in front of the black designs. One is tall and skinny, with long blonde hair, shoulders hunched up in a hooded red sweater, hands hidden within the long sleeves and a shy smile on a pretty face. The other is red haired with a round face, smiling confidently, hands folded together in front of her stomach. I hadn’t noticed on the photo her parents showed me, but Leanne looks rather chubby in an unforgiving grey hooded sweater. With red hair and overweight, she would be a perfect victim for bullying.

  ‘Leanne doesn’t care about her looks.’ Gerald Davey smiles proudly as though this was due to his input. ‘She claims to be happy in her own skin.’

  ‘Why was this photo taken?’

  ‘We had a little competition added to a project. It seems to encourage them to work harder.’ Casting a quick glance at his watch, he gestures towards the wall. ‘The project was to design a logo and letterhead for a fictional company. Siobhan and Leanne’s design had the most votes and we are showing the photo on the school’s website. Sometimes we are approached by companies which can’t afford a proper designer and we kind of help both parties. You could say it’s our way of promoting our pupils' skills. I’m sure you are aware that it isn’t easy for them to start careers down here in Cornwall, but we try to encourage them to stay in the area. It would be a shame to lose all that talent.’

  I stare at the photo. ‘Does Leanne have one particular best friend?’

  ‘Oh yes. Definitely. Siobhan. Siobhan Carter.’ He points to the other girl on the photo. 'That’s Siobhan.' He smiles fondly, his concern forgotten for a few seconds. Perhaps he has become aware of his nervous habits; the blinking has stopped, so has the pen clicking. ‘Inseparable, those two. Shame the parents are … unhelpful. Discouraging their friendship, I mean.’

  Pushing the blue binder to the side, he stares down at the pink folder, his mind wandering about the significance. ‘Actually, I think quite a few pupils called in sick today. I remember Nicky saying how unusual it was to have four pupils sick in the same group, and only the odd one in most of the other groups. Well, that may be a little exaggerated of course, but I must admit it is a bit strange. It's not like we're in the middle of a flu epidemic.’

  ‘Do you know the names of those four?’

  ‘No, but I can find out for you.’ He grabs a phone from the wall and presses his index finger on the 0. Waits for the connection and repeats my question to Nicky. Disconnecting, he grabs a blank A-4 sheet stained with a pattern of coffee rings, and tears off a corner. ‘I’ll write it down for you. Sally Pollinger, Kevin Watson and Siobhan Carter. And Leanne Lobb of course.’ As he gives me the scrap of paper, there is serious concern on his face all of a sudden.

  'Siobhan Carter isn’t here today either? And she is Leanne’s best friend?'

  'Yes. They are close. Like twins. Siamese twins.'

  Once again I stare at the photo. Both girls look young, shy and innocent, hardly the type to have boyfriends or involved in other youthful distractions. ‘Does either of them have a boyfriend that you know of?’

  This makes him chuckle. ‘Not those two. I’ve got some pupils who are … how can I put it, ahead of their age? There was a girl not so long ago who got pregnant. Fifteen. Around Christmas time it was. But not these two. They are just two young teenagers, inspector, they work hard and Leanne especially is adamant to have a career. She wants to find a good job and make a lot of money to support her parents. She has a younger sister, and I believe there are two or three other younger
siblings.’

  ‘Three little brothers.’

  ‘Yes. Well, she wants them to have a good education too.’ Shaking his head, he closes the folder as if saying that he's finished with the subject. ‘It is very rare that pupils that age are so outspoken about the future, inspector. Most of them believe school is only to have fun but Leanne is rather serious.’

  ‘So you don't think there's any reason Leanne might be a victim of bullying? Are you sure?’

  ‘Everyone likes her, inspector. Siobhan is a bit more shy and quiet, but with her background … I mean, she comes from an affluent family.’ Slightly annoyed with himself, he wonders briefly about the relevance of what he’s said, whether saying too much will get him in trouble. ‘Leanne would protect Siobhan if something like that happened to her.’

  I nod, changing the subject. ‘Did you escort Leanne and her friend to the buses yesterday?’

  ‘Ah … yes. I did. Part of a mentor’s task.’ His eyes drift to the photo. The blinking resumes: there is something he is not telling me.

  ‘Do Leanne and her friend normally use the same bus?’ I ask, making a mental note to find out where the other girl lives and visit her at home.

  ‘No. They live in opposite directions, but sometimes Siobhan goes home with Leanne.’

  ‘Were they together yesterday?’

  ‘I’m not sure.’

  ‘And what about the other two? Sally and Kevin?’

  ‘Sally has recently moved house. I believe she lives with her grandmother. I'm sorry, I'm not sure where. She might get on the same bus as Siobhan though. I'll have to check that for you. Kevin Watson is always picked up by his mother in her car.’

  ‘Do you have any idea where Leanne may have gone to? Did she mention anything? Like going to Truro for some shopping. Or meeting someone?’

  ‘Not that I can remember.’ He shifts uncomfortably, balancing from one foot to the other. Five blinks.

  ‘What about Carensa Pencreek?’

  ‘What about her?’

  ‘Is she one of Leanne’s friends?’

  ‘I suppose. The girls in that group are quite close. There are 19 boys in that group, inspector, and only 8 girls.’ He pauses as if he has lost his train of thought. ‘I’m sorry I can’t be of more help, inspector. I guess Nicky can help you with the addresses.’

  I offer a hand. His is warm and sweaty. 'Thanks for your help, Mr Davey. Please call me if you remember anything else that can help our investigation.’

  ‘Absolutely.’ As I turn towards the door, he seems hesitant, searching for the right words. ‘Do you think Leanne will …?’ He blinks. Three times.

  ‘Most missing persons show up within 24 hours, Mr Davey, and most situations turn out to be innocent, due to a misunderstanding or minor incident. But, of course, we always have to take these cases seriously, especially with children.’

  ‘Of course.’ He smiles, confidence fully regained. ‘I’ll come with you to the desk in case Nicky is worried about privacy regulations.’ He gives a wry smile, lifting his chin as the sound of young feet in the corridors grows louder. ‘We do abide by the rules, inspector, but I don’t see the point in withholding the addresses of those three other pupils, you’ll probably find them in the phone listings anyway.’

  ‘You’ve been very helpful, Mr Davey.’

  ‘I’d like to help, inspector. But at this moment, lunch break over ...' His expression is serious when he touches my arm. 'I can’t imagine anything happening to any of my pupils. And that group ... they're good. All of them. Bright and willing, not a single rotten apple, if you know what I mean. And ...'

  He stops, a hint of surprise colouring his cheeks. ‘Now that I think about it, inspector.‘ He stares at me like someone who has the nasty feeling that he’s been conned into signing up for PPI. ‘There was something. Yesterday afternoon. We’ve just started a new project and I put them into small groups to work together. They had to draw up ideas for an advertisement campaign for a chocolate business. The idea is that a third of the groups aim the campaign at young people up to twenty-five, another third aims at the between twenty-five and sixty-year-olds, and the remaining third aims at the over 60s. It makes them aware of different age groups and their implications for advertisement campaigns, but hopefully it also helps with other matters in life.’ He seems proud of his own ideas. ‘Leanne and Siobhan were in one group of course. With Sally. Sally Pollinger. The fourth girl was Abbie Mitchell. A new girl. She moved into the area about six months ago. No history whatsoever with Cornwall. Not that it matters. Nowadays there are less Cornish pupils in school than so-called 'foreigners'. But it matters to Abbie. I suppose she feels a bit lonely and, if you ask me, she’s a bit too keen on finding friends. Anyway, she’s set her mind on becoming friends with Leanne and Siobhan, but as I told you, those two are inseparable. When they were all working on that project, I noticed that the three were whispering and giggling and Abbie clearly felt left out. After class, I heard her saying something about it and Leanne took pity on her and claimed that it wasn’t personal. It was just a little secret she shared with Siobhan and Sally.’

  ‘Did you find out what the secret was?’

  ‘No, inspector, and at that moment it didn’t bother me in the slightest. I felt sorry for Abbie, but it’s just something she has to deal with. It’s what happens all the time, don’t you think? Even at our age. Acceptance and rejection. It’s part of our lives. I keep an eye out, though, to make sure that people like Abbie don’t get too depressed, but in this case she seemed okay afterwards.’

  ‘You reckon that Abbie knows something about that secret?’

  ‘I doubt it very much, inspector, perhaps you'd better ask Sally.' He glances at me with uncertainty. 'Maybe it doesn't mean anything, but isn't it a coincidence that those three girls aren't at school today? Leanne, Siobhan and Sally?’

  I nod, half expecting him to disclose his thoughts and suspicions. Instead, he waves me towards the door and walks with me to the administration area at the entrance. The corridors are filling with pupils finding their classrooms for the afternoon lessons, glaring at us dismissively. Gerald Davey has a kind word for some of them.

  ‘Do you have children yourself, Mr Davey?’

  He blinks. Five times again. Looks away, as if he’s heard something out of the ordinary. ‘My partner has one of each. We live together, so, in a way, yes.’

  6

  Arundel Close is a cul-de-sac in a new area on the outskirts of a rapidly growing village, now almost merging with Newquay. Similar semi-detached houses are scattered alongside the new tarmac road which ends in an oval circle of grass. On either of the longest sides are wooden benches that have already become victim to graffiti sprayers. Not by artists, but by vandals.

  A woman in her early sixties opens the door of number 11. Her apron is scattered with greasy stains, but her hair is nicely done and her face is powdered, lips red and smiling. ‘Yes?’ I catch the smell of fish and chips on her breath.

  ‘Does Sally Pollinger live here?’

  She nods, nudging a brochure for conservatories with the toe of a fluffy pink slipper. ‘What do you need our Sally for?’ She makes it sound as if my explanation had better be acceptable, otherwise there will be repercussions.

  With an inward sigh I show her my ID. ‘I’d like to ask her some questions about one of her schoolmates.’

  ‘Is she in trouble?’

  ‘Sally? I don’t think so.’

  The door opens an inch wider, but not to invite me in. It is to show me that she has placed her hands on her hips and that she has no intention whatsoever to let me anywhere near her granddaughter.

  ‘Do we need a lawyer?’

  ‘No. There are a few questions I would like …’

  Somewhere in the house a door opens and shuts with a bang. Snatches of arguing voices on TV are replaced by loud periodic retching.

  ‘Nan?’ A small boy peers from the living room, tugging at her apron, big blue eyes looking up at her
in anguish. ‘Mum’s taken my plate and …’

  The sounds of someone being sick drift from inside. Wiping her hands over her apron-hips, the woman mutters something under her breath, annoyance and concern etched on her face.

  ‘Ask Sally to help you, Bradley.’

  ‘But …’

  ‘I said: ask Sally!’

  The boy obeys reluctantly, giving me a quizzical look before opening a door at the far end of the narrow hallway. Before he can shut it behind him, a young woman stumbles out, wiping vomit from her chin, vacant-eyed. Her grey tracksuit looks filthy and she has a big stain of spilled liquid on her chest.

  The woman still holding the front door open doesn’t know what to say, where to look first. ‘Bekah … please?’

  The young woman has landed on her hands and knees, shaking her head as though she doesn’t know what she’s doing there. ‘I am so sick!’

  ‘We can see that,’ the older woman replies wryly, not taking her eyes off me. ‘Perhaps this moment isn't convenient, inspector.’

  I feel sorry for her, but she has too much dignity for my pity. As she steps back to close the door in my face, the woman on the floor looks up, panic in her eyes that are as blue but more closed than the boy’s.

  ‘Inspector?’ she yells, wildly gesticulating for the older woman to shut and lock the door immediately. ‘Is he police?’

  ‘He wants to speak to Sally.’ It doesn’t sound as reassuring as it is meant to be.

  ‘How could you, mum? How could you? Call the police! It’s as if you think I’ve committed a crime! I only had a few drinks! Don’t you see how bad this is? Now they’ll come and take my kids away from me. And this is all your fault. You should never have called the police.’ She’s yelling the place down, choking in between, drops of saliva and yellow slime dripping onto the new carpet on the floor and staircase.

  ‘Bekah, you’re only making this worse!’ Her voice has a dubious tone as she considers letting me in only for the sake of setting things right. I’m about to promise that they needn’t worry about me, that I won’t alert Social Services, when a girl appears.