‘Ehm … I haven’t got much time.’
He nods as if he’s expected this. ‘I do understand that you are a busy man, Mr Tregunna. But I’d appreciate it very much if you would listen to me for five minutes.’
Most of our neighbours would probably walk away at this point – he isn’t anyone’s favourite around here – but I can’t. In a weird sort of way, I feel sorry for him.
‘Okay.’ I glance at my watch.
‘It won’t take longer than five minutes, I promise,’ he says with a vague smile, interpreting my glance at my watch as me making sure that he doesn’t take more than five minutes of my time. Then I make the mistake of sitting down next to him as though we are going to have a long conversation. As if we’re acquaintances. Friends.
‘I’ve told one of my colleagues about it, but she said quite bluntly that I am acting like someone with mental health problems.’
Perhaps he has parking issues at work as well.
‘She says I’m paranoid.’
He pauses, gazing across the lake. I presume following the young woman with his eyes. She is pushing the pram with little girl, exhausted, almost asleep in it.
‘But I’m not. I’m not imagining things.’ He hesitates. ‘Which is why I dare to suggest that you listen to me.’
Shaking his head, his hand disappears into the pocket of his blazer and he retrieves a tattered notebook that looks like he’s had it since his childhood. Opening it, he licks his thumb before turning each of the pages. I see columns divided by straight lines, small, tidy handwriting.
‘Here you are, Mr Tregunna. These are my observations.’
With a rather sad smile, he offers me the notebook. Accepting defeat, I take it and open it where a pen is wedged into the spiral binding in the spine. I am not sure what he expects. Nor am I sure if I am interested in his weird little concerns anyway.
‘Look!’
I look. On top of the page is today’s date, the left-hand column has hours, divided in quarters. The other four columns seem randomly filled with A,B,C or D.
‘What is this, Mr Curtis?’ I ask, regretting it.
He doesn’t answer immediately. Instead, he checks his watch. It is gold-coloured with a matching strap. By the looks of it, it's one that needs winding up every so often. Carefully, he pulls the pen out of the spine and adds an A and a question mark in the relevant column beside the current time. Pushing the pen pack into the spine, he straightens his back. ‘Being a policeman, I thought, you may have access to … certain resources.’
‘If this is anything serious, Mr Curtis, then you really ought to go to the police.’
I know at least one of the desk officers is brilliant with time wasters. I am tempted to offer to make an appointment for him with that officer in particular.
Ignoring me, he says, ‘Don’t look straight away, sir, but on the road opposite the lake is a car parked. A black VW Golf. There are two men in it. Sometimes there is only one.’
I stare at him incredulously.
‘At this very moment there are two,’ he continues without taking his eyes from the parked cars. He’s forgotten me.
‘They have been here almost constantly for a few days now. The licence plate is …’ He flicks through the pages and taps on one of four long rectangles filled with numbers and letters that form number plates. Four of them. Colours added behind them: silver, blue, black, silver grey.
‘What is this about, Mr Curtis?’
‘These men are acting rather suspiciously.’ He gestures with his chin in an unspecified direction. ‘In my opinion, it is certainly not normal that there are one or two men watching this area almost constantly. With binoculars.’
‘Since when have you been watching them?’ I ask, feeling a shiver running down my spine.
‘Well.’ He shifts uncomfortably, eyes down in embarrassment. ‘Since that bomb threat in St Austell. Yes, I know very well, inspector, that it was a false alarm, fortunately, but we can’t ignore that these things happen, can we? That man in St Austell may have been a sad lunatic who wanted some attention, but all the same, he might have been a genuine terrorist. We have to be careful at all times, inspector.’
‘I don’t believe those men are terrorists, Mr Curtis.’
He shrugs. Opens his mouth for the next best option. ‘Then they’re looking for children. There are so many threats nowadays. Technical things. Perhaps they can make videos with binoculars. I mean, let’s face it, Mr Tregunna. Nobody would be bothered by someone using binoculars, but if they were filming other people, it would be a different matter all together. Like filming young children. Like the young woman with that little girl we saw a minute ago. I mean, it’s not right, is it, inspector?’
‘But not strictly illegal,’ I say slowly.
He nods. ‘But it’s certainly not generally accepted in our society.’
‘True.’ I stare at his notebook. ‘What would you like me to do with this, Mr Curtis?’
‘Well, I don’t really know. I thought maybe, if you can find out who these men are and then send some officers to talk to them, perhaps they’ll be scared and … not come back.’
Once more I stare at the pages, half covered with his boyish observations. ‘I will see what I can do for you, Mr Curtis.’
‘That’s all I ask, Mr Tregunna,’ he replies almost cheerfully, but definitely relieved that he won’t be dealing with the matter alone any more.
He tears a blank page out of the notebook and writes the four licence plate numbers on it. Without a word, I slide the page into my pocket. If Mr Curtis is paranoid, then I must be suffering from the same condition.
I’ve recognised one of the numbers. The silver grey one. It’s the same car that was parked at about the same spot as it is now, when I flippantly pointed out a flat tyre.
I have already checked the number plate at the police station. The car is registered in the name of Victor Carter.
18
Hidden amongst high autumn-coloured trees, Camellia House is perched on the sharp bend on the road from Newquay to St Columb Major. A high boundary wall, overgrown with ivy, has a narrow entrance way giving access to the front garden, and a drive, covered in grit and broken shells, leads to a parking area at the back. It would look attractive and welcoming if it wasn’t for the rather forbidding wrought iron gates, supported by two stone pillars. One has a black marble plaque engraved with the name of the house, the other has a white, less friendly sign, instructing visitors to wait. A small metal strip above it has narrow slits and a tiny microphone. Two cameras attached to iron poles behind each of the pillars rotate slowly as they monitor every inch of my car, zooming in on my number plate, and probably on my face as well.
A metallic-sounding voice crackles from above the waiting sign. ‘Please hold your identification card here.' Approaching it, I say, ‘Can you open the gates, please?’
‘Please hold you identification card here.’
‘Is Mr Carter in?’
The same words are repeated again and it occurs to me that I’m having a one-sided conversation with a recorded message. Then a different recording crackles through the microphone. ‘Thank you.’
I wait. Nothing happens. I’ve had my chance. I walk back to my car. Get in. More annoyed than I was already. I stare at the gates. Nothing seems to be moving except a strip of brown paper that has got stuck in the ivy.
I get out again, walk back to the sign, acknowledging defeat. After all, showing my ID-card isn’t such a big deal. Stubbornness won’t help me here. The cameras are following every inch of my movements. Wait here. I wait. Nothing happens. The computerised programmes behind the system have already rejected me. I’m not welcome at Camellia House.
I walk round the boundary wall, considering its height and my chances of climbing over it. I’m not fit enough. Besides, trespassing will probably do me more harm than good. The decision is no longer mine when I notice the rusty barbed-wire fence half hidden behind the ivy.
Getting back
into my car, I get my mobile out, not really knowing what to do next. I feel flustered with anger and frustration. I’m even more determined to get access to this house and reveal its secrets. There has to be another way.
As I start the engine, move the car into gear and turn on the space which is obviously designed for that reason, one of the gates slowly swings open and a man appears, holding the leash of a black dog that seems eager to have a go at me.
His head shaven, and with a wide black moustache carefully curled upwards, the man is wearing a black suit and white shirt, top button open, no tie; it looks like every piece of clothing is at least one size too small. He observes me with a neutral expression, waiting until I half get out of my car, one hand still on the steering wheel, the engine humming softly.
His gaze is blank. ‘Mr Tregunna?’
I nod. I didn’t need to identify myself after all.
‘Follow me.’ His head jerks to the side as he steps back. The dog jumps, pulling at his leash and showing his teeth to me by way of a serious warning. The man doesn’t give any further instructions and as the left-hand gate remains closed, I turn off the engine and follow him and the black dog on foot, keeping a sensible and safe distance. Mr Carter must be directing proceedings from behind closed curtains.
The front garden has a rectangle of shortcut grass with a polished stone sundial in the middle. Neatly trimmed hedges run along the borders in straight rows making it look so meticulously tidy that it has probably involved a surveyor with a theodolite measuring it out precisely. This is the artwork of a control freak.
The white-painted front door opens as we approach up the drive. A young woman is waiting in the half-opened doorway. She’s in her late twenties, with dark hair tied at the back of her head with a black plastic clip, wearing a black dress and a single string of small pearls around her neck.
‘Can I take your coat, sir?’ The man and the dog have somehow disappeared.
‘It won’t take long.’
‘Can I take your coat, sir?’
She avoids my eyes demurely. I wonder if she’s been instructed to repeat the words one more time. Like the recorded pre-programmed message at the entrance.
‘What’s your name, sir?’
She sounds as though she’s half expecting that I’m a salesman with a range of products nobody really needs.
‘My name is Andy Tregunna. Police. I’m investigating the disappearance …’
‘Your ID, sir?’
I retrieve my ID from my pocket and she takes it without checking it. She has clear instructions about how to act in such circumstances. Inviting strangers into the house is never an option.
A door behind her in the hallway opens and she is pushed aside by a tall and muscular man, his broad shoulders squeezed into a black suit which makes him look like a square block.
‘Cum’in.’ His head jerks to the side as he steps back, lacing his fingers as though preparing for a fight. His knuckles make a frightening cracking sound like warning shots from the gun of an invisible enemy hiding in trenches beyond my sight. The young woman disappears with quickening steps.
‘Mr Carter?’
Without a word the man closes the front door behind me, trapping me in a big hall with shiny black marble tiles and white walls covered in colourful modern art canvases in black frames. A wide black marble staircase is cantilevered off the wall as though it’s floating in mid-air. The ground-floor doors are all closed, except for a large double door which is slightly ajar. I can hear men’s voices behind it, arguing, both sounding forceful: two stags having a clashing of power.
‘Sir?’ The square block pushes open the double doors. ‘Mr Tregunna.’
Two men come forward with an urgency that gives the impression I’m the person they have been waiting for. One is a tall and slim man with a light beige suit, a pink shirt and burgundy scarf, dark blond hair and blond brows in a tanned and freckled face. The other man is a generation older and bears so much resemblance to the younger man that I decide they must be father and son.
The younger one is holding my ID-card, tapping it thoughtfully with a fingertip. ‘Detective Inspector Tregunna.’
My gaze drifts through a modern-style living room. Again, black tiles and white walls, and in here the furniture is also black and white. Leather and glass and chrome. The work of an interior designer, it lacks identity with its expensive look, its quality. About two dozen satin cushions in different, bright colours are scattered on the sofas to lift the monotony of the monochrome décor.
‘What!? Police?’
Without acknowledging me, the man turns towards the older man while emptying a crystal tumbler with a considerable amount of gold liquid.
‘I thought we agreed we’d have no police involved!’ The father’s blotched cheeks turn to a darker shade of pink. His eyes express anger and surprise.
‘Careful, dad. I didn’t invite him.’
‘Then why is he here?’
The younger man shrugs. ‘I guess we’re about to find that out.’
Making a show of pulling my phone from my pocket, quickly sliding my finger over the screen, I read out one of the licence plate numbers supplied by Mr Curtis.
‘Is that your car, Mr Carter?’ I smile casually. ‘I take it one of you is Mr Carter?’
The older man shrugs and pulls back two steps. The other frowns annoyed that I don’t appear to know him.
‘I’m Victor Carter. This is my father.’ He sounds like he is addressing his favourite pupil who finally managed to push him towards the very edge of his patience.
‘Nice to meet you, Mr Carter,’ I say flatly. ‘Is that the registration number of your car?’
He shrugs with badly acted indifference. ‘I have several cars. You’ll have to check with my secretary.’
‘Why is this car parked at Trevemper Road in Newquay?’
‘Is it?’ Amusement in his eyes.
‘Why?’
‘Trevemper Road. Near the Gannel?’
‘That’s correct.’
‘It’s a public road. With a parking area, I believe, Mr Tregunna. Free parking.’ He holds out his hand and I take my ID-card. ’Is there a problem?’
‘I wonder why that car seems to be parked there all day throughout the evening, with two men in it and a pair of binoculars.’
He shrugs. ‘As I said, I have several cars, Mr Tregunna. I also have several men working for me. They’re the ones who use my cars. At work and in their free time.’
‘Are you saying they are sitting there in their spare time?’
‘I’m afraid I can’t think of any other reason.’ He turns to the other man, who is pouring a drink from a bottle with an expensive whisky label. ‘Can you, dad?’
‘Are you sure?’ I ask.
‘Do I look like I’m stupid, Mr Tregunna?’
‘This has no relevance whatsoever to the disappearance of your daughter?’
It’s a shot in the dark, but it hits the bull’s eye with great precision. A deep silence sets in. They look at me, stunned, shocked. There is movement at the double doors and from my peripheral vision I notice that the taller one of the body guards is standing in front of them, arms crossed across his chest and legs spread. He’ll stop me from running away.
Carter Senior gulps down his whisky, including half-melted ice cubes. They rattle against his teeth and his eyes widen as he swallows them bravely.
‘How do you know my granddaughter?’ His voice is low and anxious.
‘I’m here in relation to her disappearance and …’
Turning towards his father, Victor presses his index finger onto the other man’s chest. ‘What is this? I’ve told you exactly how we’re going to deal with this and I insisted that the police wouldn’t be involved. And I definitely don’t want them in my house!’
‘Vic, I promise, I don’t have anything to do with this.’
Clearing my throat and stepping forward, I sense that the man behind me at the doors also moves. Once more his
knuckles make a threatening crispy sound.
‘Where was your daughter Wednesday night, Mr Carter?’
Victor Carter has put one hand in his trouser pocket. I can see him clenching his fist as he moves restlessly through the room, occasionally picking up folded papers and dismissing them instantly, briefly pausing near the window to look out over a garden surrounded by overgrown walls that block the view along the valley.
‘At home.’
‘According to my information she had … a sleepover party with a friend in Newquay.’
‘Ah, yes, I’m sorry. Wednesday. That’s correct.’ He won’t win an award for acting. ‘What about it?’
‘Is it possible to have a quick word with Siobhan, Mr Carter?’
Carter lifts his chin offensively, narrowing his eyes. ‘What about?’
‘Just a few questions, sir. Mainly about Leanne Lobb, her …’
‘About whom?’ he interrupts brusquely.
‘It’s in relation to the disappearance of your daughter’s friend, Leanne Lobb,’
‘Leanne … who?’ Carter Senior asks coolly, not wasting time.
I’m aware of a strong undercurrent, as if everyone around me is in a conspiracy that I know nothing of, but about which I am supposed to be briefed.
‘Leanne Lobb. She is Siobhan’s best friend and she is …’
‘My daughter is not a friend of that … girl.' Victor Carter's voice is laden with ice. His mouth moves with disgust. ‘My daughter is not involved with those people … who live on an estate like that.’
‘So you know Leanne and you know where she lives.’
‘I think you’d better leave now, Tregunna.’
‘I am informed that Leanne is Siobhan’s best friend.’
A flash of anger colours his face, his eyes are gleaming with a mixture of disgust and something I can’t fathom.
‘Certainly not!’ He blurts, and then swallows and takes a deep breath. ‘As I said, I think you’d better leave now, Tregunna.’
‘All I want is to ask Siobhan where they were on Wednesday night.’
‘I told you, Mr Tregunna, Siobhan was in Newquay for a birthday party with that other girl, Pencreek.’
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