The conversation almost comes to an end when he turns and stares at me as if by doing so he can send images of me to Bee.
‘Well, as a matter of fact, we have a visitor.’
I can’t hear her reaction, but I can see his face blush as if he’s been caught with another woman. ‘No. He is a policeman.’
Another silence.
‘No, I don’t, Bee. He’s here for you.’
Another silence. Shorter this time.
He lowers his hand. ‘Mr Tregunna, who did you say this is about?’
‘It’s about Hugo Holmes.’
He duly repeats the name, and listens for what appears like a long time. Wisps of hot air seep out of the oven door and I fear that he has overheated the oil for the second time.
Then the conversation ends without another word.
‘I’m sorry, inspector.' His eyes drift away from my face, scanning the kitchen walls to find a new vocal point. When he can't find one, he stares at the oven cloth in his hand. 'She … called to let me know that she’ll be home later. Some delayed appointment. It will take at least another hour.’
‘All right. I can come back later.’
He looks worried. ‘She seemed a bit uncertain about the time she’ll be home. She said she would call you to make an appointment.’ I can sense his unease about the whole situation.
‘I see.’
Rising to my feet, I put my card on the table. ‘Would you ask her to call me, Mr Casey?’
‘Yes. Of course.’
‘What about you, Mr Casey? Did you know Hugo Holmes at all?’
He is already opening the door for me. ‘I’m sorry. I’ve never heard that name.’
27
I meet Millicent ‘Bee’ Robson in The Inner Tide café in Truro, which is walking distance from her office. She insisted on meeting me at lunchtime rather than later at home. Her children were very fond of Hugo and she hasn’t come round yet to telling them about his death.
The cafe has jigsaw-type walls of old driftwood. Some of it is randomly painted in bright colours. Aqua blue, lime green, orange. Mismatched chairs are scattered around mismatched tables, a small glass bottle with a single white flower on each of them. Easy-listening music wafts through the premises like a gentle summer breeze; pleasantly unobtrusive in the background. There are two couples, and a trio of young women with toddlers clutching bottles in prams that obstruct the way to a corner in the back. A woman laughs too loudly in one of the window seats, her husband, embarrassed, urges her to quieten down.
Wearing a black dress with a silver scarf around her neck, Bee Robson sits at the far end in the corner. A beautiful, attractive woman. I look round quickly, but there is no other woman alone, not of the right age. She lifts her fingertips in a tiny wave as though we are having a blind date. I offer an acknowledging smile and, as I approach her, it occurs to me that I had more or less expected her to have honey blonde hair and freckles on every inch of her skin, and that she'd be dressed in bright reds or oranges. Her eyes are so dark I can’t make out their colour and her shoulder-length black hair is loose. Large silver earrings peep through with every movement.
Sizing me up she reaches out a hand that feels a bit like jelly to the touch.
‘Mr Tregunna. I appreciate you agreeing to meet me here.’
‘No problem.’
‘I’ll have to be back at the office at two. Sorry.’
‘That shouldn’t be a problem.’ I find a soft cushion and arrange it to sit on, propping another against my back.
‘I’m really sorry, but … there was no other way, really.’ Her shoulders are hunched and a little vein throbs in her neck. ‘I didn’t want to upset Jonno. He was so shocked after your visit. He’s very … sensitive.’
‘I understand.’
‘Or the children,’ she adds, as an afterthought.
‘Of course.’
‘It is a terrible thing.’ She wipes a single tear from the corner of an eye. ‘I just can’t believe it, inspector.’ Her lips tremble and she lowers her eyes, fingers fumbling with a paper napkin.
‘How long were you married, Mrs Robson?’
She doesn’t answer. Instead, a warm smile settles on her face and I become yet again aware of how attractive she is.
‘I’m Bee, inspector … what can I call you?’
‘Tregunna.’
‘No first name?’
'Tregunna is fine.’
Her eyes narrow. I can’t see her expression, but her breathing has quickened. ‘Is it too familiar to call you by your first name?’
‘I just prefer Tregunna.’
‘All right, Tregunna.’ She smiles mockingly, making me feel like a silly child.
Partly to avoid her amusement at my expense, I glance at my watch. She seems to have forgotten that she needs to be back at her office in just over thirty minutes.
‘What did you say? How long was I married to Hugo? Two years and ten months,’ she answers promptly, making it sound as if she has rehearsed the question. ‘It’s horrible, when you think about his last … hours.’
‘You didn’t come forward after we released a composite photo in the press,’ I say accusingly.
She shakes her head, lifting a fingertip to wipe away another tear. ‘I simply can’t understand how I must have missed it. Obviously, I’ve heard about the body parts. Only I had no idea it was him! Hugo! Poor, poor man. Horrible!’
A young Polish girl with pinned-up dark hair and a grey apron that is so long as to breach health and safety rules appears at our table. Her English is fluent and with only a slight hint of an accent.
Bee Robson smiles, momentarily brushing aside her grief. ‘What can I order for you, Mr Tregunna? One of these?' She has a green smoothie with a red and white straw in front of her. 'Kale and ginger and something else. Anyway, very healthy.’
‘A coffee please. Black. No sugar.’
‘On my bill, of course,’ Bee Robson says casually, then adds swiftly, even though I have no intention to object, ‘No inspector, I insist. I asked you to meet me here instead of at home.’
‘Thank you.’
She leans over to put the straw between her full red lips. I catch a glimpse of a red bra with black lace edges. She looks up suddenly, knowing perfectly well why I look away so quickly.
I clear my throat. ‘We are trying to find out where Hugo Holmes lived and worked in the period prior to his death, Mrs Robson.’
‘I can’t help you there, inspector.’ For a split second her face hardens. I’m not even sure if I imagined it. ‘Our divorce was rather … unfriendly. One day he was there as usual, the next I came home from work and found his message that he’d left me. He didn’t even leave an address!’
‘That must have been quite a shock.’
‘Of course it was. I wanted him back. I didn’t understand why … he said he didn’t love me any more. Or the children. I couldn’t believe that he walked out on us … like he did. I’ve tried everything to find him, but he seemed to have disappeared.’
‘When was that?’
‘Just after Christmas.'
‘And you haven’t seen him since that day?’
‘He’d made breakfast for the children. He kissed me, as he always did. I asked him to get me something; I can’t remember now what it was. Something from the pharmacy. He said it was no problem. He would get it when he came back from shopping with the children.’
‘And you never heard from him again? At all?’
‘Well, obviously I called him that night on his mobile. Asking him, begging him to come back. But he said that he needed time to think about his life … that sort of rubbish. He wasn’t even forty! That’s normally the age men start to wonder if they are leading the life they really want, don’t they? He wouldn’t give me his address, because he needed time and space and … privacy. I couldn’t believe it, Tregunna. He had all the freedom in the world.’ Her voice switches from anger to pain, from fury to distress. And back. ‘He had no job, he only h
ad to look after me and the house and the children. He could do what he wanted when they were at school and I was working. I always encouraged him to make friends, go on courses, play golf or football … Anything!’ Tears are running down her face. The waitress has brought coffee for me and a plate with a Panini and garnish for her. She looks at in disgust and pushes the plate aside.
‘He also took some … things. My stuff!’
‘What kind of stuff?’
‘Well, you know, letters, photos. A ring he’d given me. Nothing valuable but emotionally it was very important to me.’
‘If we find his address, we might be able to give it back to you.’
She nods and puts the straw between her lips, sucking slowly. I can see the green substance getting stuck halfway down the straw.
‘That would be wonderful. Honestly. Besides, it’s hardly of importance to anybody else, is it?’
‘It may take a while, but I’ll do my best, Mrs Robson.’
‘Thank you,’ she says solemnly.
‘Did Hugo have any relatives?’
‘I’m pretty sure he was an only child. I've not met many of his family members. His father left them when he was nine or ten. His mother … The bitch!’ Her face has tightened, her eyes aflame with anger and frustration. ‘I was never good enough for her precious little boy.’
‘Hardly surprising.’
Her eyes narrow. ‘What do you mean by that?’
‘Just that it is commonly known that mothers-in-law are not very popular with the wives of their sons. And vice versa.’
‘To be frank, that was definitely the case with us. In the end I didn’t bother with her any more. Haven’t seen her in years. I don’t even know if the bitch is still alive. Wouldn’t surprise me if she wasn’t because she was always complaining about aches and pains.’
‘Do you know where she lives?’
‘No, I don’t. I believe she moved somewhere else, but I’ve never been there. I was never included in any invitations.
‘Yet, she deserves to know that her son is dead.’
‘Oh, but of course she does! Poor soul! Her only child! But sorry, I can't tell you her address.’
‘What about Hugo’s friends? Is there anyone that you know of who he could have gone to stay with when he left you? Even it was only until he found somewhere else to live?’
Thoughtfully she stirs the straw in the smoothie. Her lunch remains untouched.
‘It occurs to me how strange it is that I can’t remember the names of Hugo’s friends. And I assure you, there is nothing wrong with my memory. To be frank, I don’t think he had friends. As such.’
‘People he met in the pub?’
‘He wasn’t a drinker.’ She chuckles, smiling suggestively. ‘He wasn’t used to alcohol. He got funny after a single glass of wine. Frisky. Horny.’
Harold Price told me Hugo could drink gallons of beer and you wouldn’t notice anything. He must have changed his life style drastically after he met Bee.
‘I presume he had his mobile phone with him when he left?’
‘Of course he did. That’s how I managed to speak to him.’ She lifts her shoulders. Hurt. Incredulous.
‘Do you have his number?’
She picks up her iPhone. It has a pink cover with a curly pattern of little fake diamonds. Then she shakes her head and puts it back on the table. ‘No. I remember. I deleted it. He didn’t want to explain why he left me. I tried several times but he wouldn’t answer after that first phone call. In the end, I thought there was no point in even trying, so I wiped it.’
She picks up her fork and chews a slice of cucumber.
‘You said he took some stuff of yours.’
‘That was later. By the time I found out what he had taken I had already deleted his contact details. I didn’t have a clue how to contact him. Very frustrating.‘
‘And you couldn’t remember his number?’
‘No.’ She frowns. ‘Do you remember phone numbers, Tregunna? We all rely on our clever devices nowadays, don’t we?’
‘Did he use a computer?’
‘Oh yes. When he was made redundant, he spent hours on the internet to find a new job.’ She frowns.
‘Did you have access to his emails?’
‘On our computer at home? I did. We shared everything, Tregunna. He could always see my messages, I could see his. We had no secrets.’ Her frown deepens. ‘At least that was what I thought. I discovered that he’d changed his passwords for his emails before he left.’
‘Our technical department can work miracles with computers and phones. So, we would like to look at your computer, Mrs Robson. You will understand that it is important that we know his whereabouts before he died.’
She picks up her knife and fork and cuts a piece of her Panini. Melted cheese drips on her plate. She stares at it with disgust. ‘When did you say he died?’
‘We don’t know exactly.
‘Oh.’ Her face grows pale and her eyes moisten. ‘I’m sorry. That sounded awfully insensitive. I didn’t … I don’t really want to know any details about his death.’
Her hand trembles and she grabs mine for support, squeezing my fingers as if she thinks I will retract mine. It’s a weird feeling, as if we are a couple and she needs my comfort. Her hand is warm, her smile is intoxicating, her eyes full of emotion. Her thumb caresses my palm and I feel overwhelmed like a powerful jetstream is sending me in the opposite direction of where I want to go.
‘Tregunna,’ she says softly, her head moving closer is if she’s about to tell me the secrets in her heart. She is so close now I can see that her eyes are grey. Dark. Dark shades of grey. The connection to the book that swept the world a while ago with its explicit sexual content makes my insides churn.
‘I would like to meet you again, but under different circumstances,’ she says softly, licking her lips in a suggestive way. I clear my throat, feeling like a schoolboy who has set his hopes on sneaking a kiss from the most beautiful and popular girl, behind the sheds in the schoolyard.
Briefly, guiltily, I consider going to the pharmacy to get Mr Cole’s prescription after all.
‘Are you married, Tregunna?’
‘No.’
‘Do you live with someone?’
‘No.’
She smiles with a hint of triumph and certainly a promise. ‘Me and Jonno, we have an open relationship. He has his … moments and so do I. We are completely honest about that to each other.’
‘That sounds unusual.’
‘Do you think so? Have I embarrassed you, Tregunna?’ She leans forward again, her head only one or two inches away, her hand still holding mine. I feel like I’m trapped on an island with her, in the middle of a turbulent sea.
‘I wish I could have you here and now, Tregunna. But I’m afraid I’ll have to go to work.’ She smiles with honest regret. ‘Doesn’t that sound awful?’
28
Trerice Manor is a romantic Elizabethan House just on the outskirts of Newquay. Owned by the National Trust it is a popular tourist destination particularly when the weather isn't warm and sunny enough to flock to the beaches in the county. As a great fan of romantic historical novels, Lauren has just been reading a novel based in and around the estate. She'd casually mentioned it on her birthday and I haven't forgotten.
We explore the parts of the house that are open to the public, listen to one of the many volunteer guides who has a font of information and a friendly smile. The main attraction of the house appears to be an historically important plastered ceiling in the great hall, but Lauren has more passion for the paintings and furniture, trying to work her way through the past centuries and imagine what life was like in the days of the heroines in her favourite books.
She searches the room containing second-hand books for sale and buys small presents in the shop for the boys: kits to explore the lives of birds and insects. I haven't visited a place like this since my younger years when my parents were determined that I should get acquainted
with a bit more historical education than was offered at school. I must admit, I am pleasantly surprised how much I am enjoying myself here. Not least because of Lauren’s presence.
We head for the cafe. Order lunch and take our drinks, mineral water for me and chilled white wine for Lauren, on trays outside. There is barely a breath of wind and the sun is warm. Wooden tables are full with couples and families with young children in prams. Insects buzz and birds sing in the trees of the sheltered garden. Everyone seems to be relaxed and happy.
Dressed in light beige linen trousers and a pale blue silk blouse, sunglasses perched on her head, Lauren lifts her face towards the sun in an attempt to relax. She was tense and nervous when I picked her up from home earlier, after she told me, in tears, that her sons had been taken out by their father for the weekend. The agreement had been that he would bring them home at the end of the day, but when he arrived and announced that he had a surprise for the boys that involved staying overnight, she felt she had no other option than bite her lip and hold back her comments. She is too sensitive to have a fight with her ex-husband in the presence of the boys, a fact I think he uses to his own advantage.
A rather loud group gather at a nearby table, headed by a tall, pink-nosed man in red trousers, a pale blue shirt and a navy-blue jumper draped over his shoulders as if he used glue to keep it in place. He looks like a retired banker who successfully negotiated the world’s most treacherous financial waters, while his wife looks like her only goal in life has ever been to spend his money with gay abandon.
I walk round the building to the toilets for a safety check on my stoma bag, smelling the sweet scent of an abundance of pink roses climbing against the wall. When I return, Lauren is chatting to the couple on the table behind ours. The woman is stroking a tiny dog hidden in the folds of her cardigan. It has huge brown eyes and is trembling all over. The husband is looking at his mobile as if he is contemplating who to call and have a rant with about everything that has gone wrong in our society.
‘She misses her little sister.’ The woman’s eyes flood with tears which drip onto her chest. Lauren grabs a small tray on our table, where a bundle of napkins is weighed down by a flat pebble with the National Trust logo painted on it.
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