‘I’m more concerned about Becca’s mental state.’
‘She’s barely alive, Tregunna, but yes, I understand what you’re thinking.’ He is more serious now. ‘You worry about what might happen?’
‘Dorothy Trewoon is a very dangerous, manipulative woman, Maloney. In some ways, she’s a genius. An actress worthy of winning an Oscar. I hope nobody has fallen for her little insincere smiles and feels sorry for her.’
Maloney offers a smile of sympathy. ‘Perhaps it would be a good idea if you could be present, Andy, when she arrives.’
‘She tried to kill me.’
‘You’re not scared of her!’
‘Of course I’m not. I am more concerned about if and how it will affect Becca. We can’t tell if she can hear anything. Perhaps she’s capable of listening and understanding, but she has no control of her muscles and there is no way she can communicate. If she does hear us, it must be as frustrating as hell not to be able to respond.’
‘I’m sure she will be monitored at all times, Tregunna.’ He gives a short nod, as if sealing a business deal.
My mouth is dry. ‘What time will she be there?’
‘Trewoon? I'll have to check that for you. I’ll let you know.’
He doesn’t know about my regular visits to Becca, and I’d like to keep it that way. He opens his mouth to say more, then thinks better of it when he sees the angry glance I flash in his direction.
‘I wasn't involved in this matter, Andy,’ he adds as an afterthought, using my first name as if to suggest that he is on my side. ‘I’d have asked your opinion, but Guthrie approved the request before I could talk to you.’
It wouldn’t have made any difference and we both know it. Guthrie makes his own decisions and he strongly believes he doesn’t need anyone else’s input. ‘Thanks …. Maloney.’ I can’t remember his first name. He knows. Smiling dryly, he rises from his seat awkwardly as if his rare offer of friendship has been rudely denied.
‘I’m off now.’ He pulls a face that is intended for everyone to believe that he hates going off duty. He opens the door and I follow him with a sense of relief.
‘The wife’s parent’s wedding anniversary. We’re going to Rick Stein’s in Padstow with the family,’ he says, mostly for the benefit of Sponge-Rob.
‘Hm. I’d better be good, then, the meal,’ Rob says, duly impressed. ‘It’ll be very expensive.’
‘But very good.’ Maloney nods suggesting he has lots of experience of eating there. ‘Anyway, Andy, if it’s not interrupting my main course, and if you find something important, let me know. I’ll keep my phone with me.’
He’s not only wanting to show off to Rob and me, but also to his family. He’d love to receive a phone call interrupting his expensive dinner, to demonstrate his importance.
‘Good luck, Andy.’ He waves jovially.
‘Enjoy your meal … eh … Philip.’
24
‘Tregunna? Sir? Have you got a moment?’ DS Ollie Reed slides his arms into his jacket pockets with a mixture of reluctance and excitement, as though he has a pregnant wife whose waters have broken and he’s so scared that he is seriously considering ignoring her call.
‘Yes, Ollie?’
‘We received a phone call that someone has recognised the photo of the facial reconstruction of the head. I’m going to see them.’ He pats the breast pocket to check its contents.
‘Has Maloney been informed?’
He shrugs, exchanging a meaningful glance with Sponge-Rob. ‘Maloney is off duty tonight, sir. Some family do, I believe.’
Clearly, Maloney’s message about interrupting his meal hasn’t got through to everyone.
‘Jennette suggested I go alone, but perhaps you can come with me.’ He hesitates, eyes lowered. ‘You tend to get more out of people than most of us do, sir.’
My surprise must have been written all over my face, because Sponge-Rob grimaces slightly before rummaging through a pile of papers and documents on his desk
‘It’s in St Dennis.’ He smiles, a yellow post-it note stuck on his fingertip with the name Price on it.
‘Okay. You can drive and drop me off at home afterwards.’
The road brings us right to the middle of the county. The small town was originally built along the slopes of a hill, allowing most residents a panoramic view over the valley, perhaps even a view of the sea in the distance, but now their view is obscured by the shapes of the incinerator, decreasing the value of most the properties. The tall chimney has red lights on top.
‘Mrs Price?’
Dressed in a top with a joyful abundance of bright colours over a pair of jeans, she has a dark skin and a halo of black Afro hair. Her smile is wide and white.
‘You want to see my husband.’ The love she must have felt on her wedding day seems long gone in her tone. She points along the hallway which is lined with shoes and wellington boots in all kinds of sizes and colours. My mother used to make me put my shoes on an old newspaper, but Mrs Price doesn’t seem to be bothered about mud stuck on the floor.
We pass a kitchen that looks like it’s been involved in a recent disaster. She sees me looking, but her face remains rather stoic about it. By the looks of it, the family has just had dinner. There are plates with unwanted vegetables moved to the edges, spilled milk lies around the plastic beakers with prints of cartoon characters on them. Cutlery is scattered across a red-and-white-checked plastic table cloth as though someone has emptied the contents of the cutlery drawer on it. There is a smell of an odd mixture of cabbage and bleach.
We enter the living room that reflects its title exactly: people are living in it, rather than keeping it tidy for possible guests. My parents have a living room like that. Cold and unwelcoming and undergoing a dutiful cleaning session every Friday, even though it’s hardly ever used.
A man and six children fill the room. Two of the children are redheads like the man, the others must take after his wife, with darker skin but light enough to suggest a mixed race. The TV is loud, showing images I recognise, even at my age. Sesame Street. Tommie. Bert and Ernie. One of the dark little girls is clutching a soft-toy version of Bert – or Ernie? – under her chin, thumb of the other hand in her mouth. She’s the only one staring at the TV screen. The other children are otherwise occupied: two boys of similar age but different skin colour are fighting each other that will no doubt end up in tears, another dark girl is trying to learn how to hula hoop, and an older dark girl is lying on her back across the top of the back rest of a flowery sofa, watching and listening to You Tube videos; a red-haired girl is arguing with Mr Price who’s in charge over the remote control.
‘Har.’
He looks up with relief. His wife has called him from the doorway. Putting the remote control in the breast pocket of his shirt, he rises to his feet, gently pushing the girl away as she tries to grab it. ‘I said no, Wendy. Not until Rosa is finished watching Sesame Street.’
The girl pushes her lower lip forward, gazing around with uncontrolled anger, then sticks out an arm towards the girl with the hula hoop. It crashes on the floor, subsequently the girl bursts out in tears.
‘Is there somewhere we can talk, Mr Price?’ I say, raising my voice over the crying girl, You Tube songs, shouts of the two fighting on the floor, and Bert and Ernie singing a duet out of tune.
Inwardly, I feel for Ollie, hoping his new girlfriend has no plans yet to start a family with him. He’d be better off having a vasectomy after this visit, I think, but his face suggests otherwise.
Looking relieved, Mr Price exclaims: ‘I guess the pub’s the best option.’
As we follow him outside, I wonder briefly if he agreed to see us at this time of day for an excuse to go to his local.
‘I’ll tell my wife.’
We follow him back to the front door, where we wait and he disappears into the kitchen. His wife isn’t very happy, by the sound of her raised voice. Next to me, Ollie stares at his feet and I fail to read his body language.
/>
At the Boscawen Inn, the door shuts behind us with a bang, alerting a cluster of regulars standing at the busy end of the bar. Harold Price is quickly recognised. Smiles and greetings are shared, pats on shoulders exchanged, and remarks made about matters that are beyond me. The landlord nods and asks politely if he’s all right. Harold shrugs and looks around him, uncomfortable to be seen in the presence of two strangers. They say people can easily pick out policemen, who are often treated as enemies. I’m reminded of that when the landlord turns his back on us and signals to a big blonde woman, interrupting her conversation with a couple sat on bar stools.
I put a twenty pound note in Ollie’s hand and he makes his way to the bar to place our orders. We take a table in the quietest corner, away from the large TV screen on which the inevitable football match is being shown. The sound is off and a handful of men are staring at the subtitles with little interest. Only one of them seems to get excited by the match, gesticulating frantically to instruct players what to do or not to do – in his humble opinion.
I wait for Ollie to return holding three pints of beer in two hands with the experience of a regular pub visitor. I pull the photo out of my pocket and place it on the table within the triangle formed by of our glasses on a rather sticky surface.
‘You called us, Mr Price. Was it about this man?’
‘The photo in the paper. Yes.’ He nods, barely looking at it. ‘I read the paper at work. In my break. I knew immediately that it was him.’
‘Can you tell us his name?’
‘Hugo Holmes,’ he replies without hesitating and I see the grin of satisfaction on Ollie’s face when he writes the name in his little notebook. Then he glances at me, pursing his lips, waiting for his cue. He knows me well enough to hold back and not instantly ask for Hugo Holmes’s address. I sip my beer and carefully centre the glass on a beer coaster, quietly waiting until Price becomes aware of the silence. Breaks it.
‘We used to meet in the pub. Not here. In Bodmin, where we both lived at the time. We had a group of friends.’ He shakes his head with disappointment, silent for a moment as though we have interrupted his train of thought. ‘That was before I met Win. My wife.’
He feels sorry for himself. But for her he might still be a regular pub goer. Now he is stuck washing the dishes. Reading bedtime stories. Watching whatever she prefers on TV.
‘We were six. Me and my brother Des and three other mates. We had a great time.’ He looks up and gazes around wondering how and why those wonderful times have gradually vanished from his life.
‘Was Hugo a sociable man?’
If he thinks this is an odd question, he doesn’t show it. ‘Best mate I ever had.’ He stops. Realisation dawning. He blinks a few times, forcing back sudden tears. ‘I’m sorry to hear he’s dead.’
‘When did you last see him?’
‘Oh! That must have been a while ago.' He is overreacting. Smiling. Hyper. Tears pushed back violently. 'Let me think. He did come to our wedding with his new missus. I guess she was his wife. Pretty girl. But after that. No.’
‘When was your wedding?’
He chuckles with vague discomfort. ‘Third of next month. Three years ago. Win reminds me almost every day in case I forget to buy her flowers. Or a present.’
‘What happened?’
‘With Hugo? Who knows? We used to meet quite regularly. A few times a week and of course at the weekends. My brother was single, still is, so were Toby and Ray, but me and George and Hugo had a family. I was still married to Ronnie in those days.’ He falls silent and I wait patiently for him to go on, sensing that his divorced from Ronnie wasn’t an easy one, that she was probably the mother of some if his children.
‘She used to go out with her mates most Fridays and my time was every Saturday. We went to football matches sometimes, ending up in our local.’ Silence again. 'Ronnie died. Cancer. Mal was only a baby.'
Ollie clears his throat. Lost for words. Harold Price swallows hard a couple of times. Reliving it.
‘When did you move to St Dennis?’
‘That was when I met Win.’
‘Was that why you lost contact?’
‘Not really. My brother also moved to St Dennis and in the beginning we still went to Bodmin on Saturday. Drove in turns.‘ He looks like he’s lost something. ‘At first, I didn’t really notice that Hugo wasn’t there every week until my brother joked about it. His missus seemed a bit bossy and we teased him a bit about that. Afterwards, I’ve often wondered if we might have offended him. He wasn’t the kind of person to shy away from jokes at his expense though. Most of the times he laughed about it, but maybe … Sometimes when he came, he was like feeling guilty and he went home early.’
‘Did he drink a lot? Too much maybe? And his wife wasn’t happy about that?’
He chuckles. ‘Hugo could swallow a gallon of beer and no one would notice.’
‘Do you think his wife was keeping him away from you?’
‘I honestly don’t know. I’d met her of course, but she wasn’t our type. Win thought we should maybe invite them for a meal at home, or meet them somewhere, but Hugo didn’t seem very keen, so it never happened.’
‘Do they have children?’ I ask, hoping that the answer will be no.
‘No, not him, but his missus had two already. A girl of the same age as my Wendy. The boy was a little younger than my Mal.’
‘And Wendy and Mal are…?’
‘Wendy’s ten and Malcolm's seven.’
‘No children together, though?’
‘Not that I know of. But as I said, I haven’t seen him for three years.’
‘What else can you tell us about him?’
‘Not much that may be useful to you, I'm afraid, inspector. We worked together in a petrol station with a garage attached. I’m a mechanic and he worked on the till.’
‘Which company was that?’ Ollie asks, the point of his pen ready on his notebook.
‘They’ve closed down,’ Price shrugs. ‘New regulations with health and safety were too expensive for them. My boss tried to keep the garage running for a while but he gave up a year later. I was made redundant.’
‘Holmes as well?’
‘Before me. As I said, he worked on the till. He did help us out in the garage every once in a while but he wasn’t a qualified mechanic. Anyway, it didn’t seem to matter to him that much. That he was made redundant, I mean. His missus had a good job, I remember him saying. He didn’t need to work. Not with her salary. I think he looked after the children for a while.’
‘Where do you work now, Mr Price?’
‘In the garage here just outside St Dennis.’ He points in a vague direction.
‘Did you know Hugo’s last address?’
‘He lived in the street behind us in Bodmin before he moved away. I believe he went to St Austell.’
‘He never gave you the address?’
‘No.’ He shrugs. ‘I had his mobile phone number. I had no dealings with her.’
‘When were you last in contact?’
‘I can’t remember that, to be honest. At some point we realised that he didn’t come to the pub any more. That must have been a few weeks after Win and I got married. I can’t remember the exact date.’
‘And you haven’t heard from him, or about him, since?’
‘No.’
‘Do you still have his mobile phone number?’
‘The number isn’t active anymore. Sorry.’ He shrugs by way of an apology as if he’s feeling guilty having let down his friend. Perhaps he wonders whether Hugo Holmes might still have been alive if he’d kept in contact with him.
‘What was the name of his missus?’
‘He called her Bee but that wasn't her real name. Apparently she was a big fan of Beyoncé, the singer, and I seem to remember that he said she wanted to be called the same as her.’
‘No last name?’
‘I’m sorry. He always referred to her as Bee, or his missus.’
25
The woman's voice is a tad hoarse, as if she has recently suffered a bad cold and still has bouts of coughing.
She sits two seats to my left. A woman in her late fifties, knitting frantically, the needles clicking away furiously. Every now and then she pulls a thread of beige wool from the ball hidden in a cotton bag with crochet flowers sewn on it. Her smile is cheerful enough to tell me that she isn’t a patient waiting for bad news from the consultant. As a result of this observation I decide that she is probably waiting for someone she drove to the hospital, someone she is not necessarily emotionally attached to.
I’m back in the waiting room in Treliske, where two volunteers, different from last time, negotiate the coffee and tea trolley. One is tall and slim, with thin greying dark hair and a yellowish tan, the other is short and stocky, constantly humming the same indecipherable tune. Duly waiting for Mr Cole to call me in, half of me is hoping that he will be called out again on an emergency. Sad. Foolish.
I accept a black coffee and a chocolate biscuit from the tin. The woman near me drops her needles in her lap to take a cup of white coffee and, after a shrug, two digestive biscuits. United in a coffee break, we sit and smile awkwardly, neither of us wanting to start a conversation about the weather, the kindness of the voluntary ladies or, if all else fails, the wait for our appointments.
The sun has disappeared behind a bank of clouds gathering above Truro. It’s still dry, but only just. The temperature has dropped and there is a cold dampness in the air that sends a shiver along my spine.
'Alistair, I’ve named him.'
It takes a full minute to realise she is talking to me. ‘I’m sorry?’
She chuckles, decides the coffee is too hot and bends over to place her mug on a small table. The digestives will have to wait also.
Then she picks up her needles and the clackety-clack continues.
‘You’ll think I’m mad.’ She glances over a pair of reading glasses.
‘Yes.’
What every body is saying: DI Tregunna Cornish Crime novel Page 17