‘And was he?’
‘No. We asked if there was anyone else, but … no.’
‘Leanne mentioned a girl.’
‘Yes. Stacey. She’d been there all evening and she was still there. She was … with one of Sammii’s friend. I think he’s the drummer in the band. She was …’ She doesn’t finish, blushing.
‘What can you tell me about Stacey?’
‘She … she was with, Larry, I think his name was. They were …. She said she could help us, but we had to wait. Ten minutes or so. The bar was closing. They went in a sort of a van. It had windows, but they were all dark.’ She shifts. Uneasy. I can’t work out whether she is lying and making things up, or just embarrassed by the whole situation.
‘We waited. It started to rain. We were so cold! I was almost suggesting calling my dad.’ She offers a tiny smile. ‘But then Stacey came out of that van and we … walked to her home.’
‘How old is Stacey?’
‘A few years older than Leanne and me, I think.’
‘Okay. So she took you to her house. Do you remember the address?’
‘No. Leanne said we should not tell anyone. We didn’t want Stacey to get in trouble for helping us.’
‘Of course not. I understand. But it was in Plymouth?’
‘Yes. In a terraced house. She lives there with her mother.’
‘Did you meet the mother?’
‘Stacey said we’d better not make any noise. Her mother would be pissed off if she saw us. She told us that we had to wait until her mother went to work the next day, and we couldn’t leave before her mother had gone.’
‘Where did you sleep?’
‘On the floor. Stacey gave us an extra duvet and some cushions from her bed.’
‘Who is Lillie?’ The question, and the name, jumps up out of nowhere.
‘Lillie?’
‘Leanne mentioned a dog. Lillie.’
She hesitates. ‘Oh, yes, of course. I forgot about the dog.’
‘What kind of dog was it?’
‘I … don’t know.’
‘Big or small? What colour? Black? Brown? Spotted?’
‘It was dark. I … didn’t really see him.’
‘Leanne heard him barking.’
‘Ehm … yes.’ She swallows. ‘Stacey was afraid her mother would wake up.’
‘But she didn’t.’
‘No.’
‘Okay. Then, in the morning, you waited until Stacey’s mother went to work?’
‘Yes.’
‘What time was that?’
‘I can’t remember.’ Her eyes almost shut, but not because of sun or a bright light. ‘Stacey made us a cup of tea, but she had to go as well.’
‘She had to go to school?’
‘I’m not sure. Maybe she had a job. I can’t remember.’
‘Okay. It doesn’t matter. What time did you catch the bus?’
‘Maybe … between nine and half past?’
I nod, quickly making a mental note to have another go at CCTV from the bus. I’m pretty sure the images have already been checked, but I can’t remember the girls were on them. ‘So it was too late to get to school on time.’
‘Yes.’
‘What time did the bus arrive in Newquay?’
‘It was a long ride. When we arrived in Newquay … we didn’t know what to do. Obviously, we couldn’t go home. Or to school. And we were scared that someone would see us.’
‘According to Leanne you went to the house where Sally Pollinger used to live.’
Her face flushes. ‘Yes. We did. But as I said, we were scared that someone would see us. The house is on the same estate as Leanne’s. Everyone knows her there.’
‘And you stayed there until it was time to get yourselves to the bus stop?’
She straightens her back and looks up. Her confidence is growing. She is on safer grounds now. ‘Yes. I went first, because my bus stop was further away. Leanne only had to walk for five minutes.’
‘Through the back alleys, I presume?’
‘She couldn’t risk one of the neighbours seeing her.’
‘Okay.’ I nod, offering a friendly smile. ‘I think that was all, Siobhan. Thank you.’
‘You … won’t tell my father?’
‘Tell him what?’
‘That I talked to you.’ His threat is conveyed in her voice.
‘Of course not. Maybe it’s in both our interests not to tell anyone about our conversation.’
‘Not even Leanne?’
‘You and Leanne are friends, Siobhan. I’m sure you’ll tell each other everything.’
‘Not everything,’ she whispers, regretting it instantly.
She is uncertain again. This time, I don’t understand why, but I let it go for now. I’ve heard enough. The dog, Lillie, was my little white lie. I made it up. If the bit about the dog was a lie, then so was the bit about Stacey.
‘Let’s call Mr Davey, shall we? He can take you back to your class.’
‘I don’t like playing hockey anyway.’
She rises, staring outside to the fields where her classmates are running around in the middle of their game.
‘What’s with Leanne today? She isn’t at school.’
‘I haven’t had contact with her.’ Tears moisten her eyes. ‘My father has taken my mobile phone.’
30
‘They are back.’ Curtis calls over to me, cleaning the already clean windows of his car in the resident’s car park.
I stop in my tracks. ‘Who are back?’
‘Those men in the car. Well, the car is back.’ He drops his sponge in a bucket of soapy water. ‘Are you going to do something about them parking there?’
‘The car is parked on a public road, Mr Curtis. Anyone can park there. You don’t even have to pay to park.’
‘I thought you knew who they are.’
‘I do, but it doesn’t mean I can stop them from parking there.’
‘Suppose they’re terrorists?’
I almost laugh. ‘They aren’t.’
He persists. ‘How can you tell? I saw it on TV. Last week. A terrorist was caught in the new shopping centre in St Austell. What if another one has come here?’
‘To do what? Plant a bomb in the lake and kill the swans and ducks?’
‘You aren’t taking me seriously.’ He eyes me up with a hint of a sad smile. He is used to not being taken seriously.
I sigh. ‘I am, Mr Curtis, I am.’
‘Then what …?’
‘I will deal with this. I promise, Mr Curtis.’
He bends to pick up his sponge from the bucket and wrings it out forcefully.
‘If you say so, inspector.’
It seems we’re back to our previous cold war.
‘You know who they are.? Do you also know why they’re here, watching you? Or me? Or maybe Chloe, from next door?’
‘Yes,’ I say, although that’s only a truthful answer to his first question. His face is sullen still. He doesn’t believe a word of what I said. I don’t really know why his opinion of me bothers me so much, but suddenly I feel angry.
‘Okay. I’ll deal with this. Now.’
I see shock in his eyes. ‘I didn’t mean …’
‘I know, Mr Curtis, but you are right. It can’t go on like this. I’ll have to speak to the driver’s boss. Now.’
I walk back to my car, but change my mind. Curtis is watching me. His mouth hangs half open and the sponge is forgotten in his hand. Water drips on his polished shoes, soaking one of his trouser legs. He doesn’t even notice.
‘Can I help?’ He calls after me.’
I don’t respond. I cross the road and the park, ignoring the paths, walking instead on the damp grass. The man in the car doesn’t see me approaching. He is slumped behind the steering wheel playing games on his mobile phone. His index finger is moving coloured bricks across some fields to build an empire of his dreams. I startle him when I open the door on the passenger side.
‘What t
he …?’ He jerks upright, dropping his phone between his legs and reaching for the ignition keys.
‘I’d like a word with your boss.’
‘My boss?’
‘Mr Carter.’
His face turns a pale shade of grey. ‘You are mad,’ he blurts, but there is an element of fear in his eyes. It is the same young blonde driver I’ve seen before. Plucking nervously at the stud in his eyebrow, he remembers our earlier encounter, when he believed that the car had a flat tyre.
‘I thought you would say that.’ I smile coldly at him. ‘You don’t mind if I get in, do you?’
‘Well, as a matter of fact …’
‘You’re too kind.’ I slump next to him and close the door, reaching for the seat belt.
‘What the hell …?’
‘I told you, I want a word with Mr Carter.’
‘And who might this Mr Carter be?'
Producing my warrant card, I say curtly: ‘Listen mate, let’s not play games, shall we? You know who I am. Detective Inspector Tregunna.’
‘I’m sitting here waiting for my wife. She’s …’
‘If you are sure you don’t know Mr Carter, then I’ll have to arrest you on suspicion of theft. This car is in Mr Carter’s name.’
He sighs. Defeated. ‘What do you want him for?’
‘It’s about his daughter.’
He doesn’t ask why. Nor does he come up with silly lies that Mr Carter doesn’t even have a daughter.
‘What about her?’
‘That’s between Carter and me.’
His hand is still on the keys, but he hasn’t started the engine. It needs more pressure.
‘Mr Carter won’t be happy today,’ I say casually. ‘Did your colleague tell you about his little encounter with me today?’
‘Ehm …’
‘Clearly not. Shall I enlighten you? I was at Siobhan’s school today. Your mate didn’t see me go in. He only saw me when I came out. Too late. I think his instructions were to keep me away from his daughter.’
‘Ehm …’
‘Do you think Mr Carter will be pleased with you when he finds out that I am sitting in his car?’ I ask rhetorically.
‘All right. But I’ll have to make a phone call first.’
Retrieving his mobile from between his legs, he wipes his game off the screen and presses a circle on the top of his contact list with a trembling index finger.
‘I need to speak to Mr Carter.’
No explanation needed. This man’s reason for the call is immediately trusted. No doubts or cautions.
‘Mr Carter. I have Mr Tregunna here and … .’ On second thoughts, he stops before explaining I am next to him in his car. ‘He wants to see you.’
‘What?’ I hear the bark that must have hurt the poor man’s eardrum. ‘How can he …?’
I grab the mobile phone from his hand. ‘Mr Carter, you know who I am. DI Tregunna. I have kindly asked your … driver to take me to your house.’
‘I see no reason for this visit, Mr Tregunna.’
‘But I do, Mr Carter.’
A short pause. ‘Listen, Tregunna, leave my man alone and tell him I’d like a word with him.’
I hang up and nod to the driver. ‘Okay. Let’s go.’
‘I didn’t hear him say it was all right … ‘
‘No. You didn’t.’ I fasten the seat belt and make myself comfortable on the seat. ‘He said he wanted a word with you. It may be in your best interest if I come with you. Perhaps I can prevent him from firing you.’
Both options don’t appeal to him, but unless he comes round the car and pulls me out, there is no other choice but to do what he’s told.
Camellia House is bathed in the late evening sun. The walls have a welcoming golden glow. The gates open on our approach. I haven’t seen the driver press a concealed button, so there must be an automatic device which opens them.
‘I think it’s best if you stay in the car,’ I say. ‘You’ll have to take me home after my conversation with your boss.’
‘I don’t think …’
‘You’re right. Maybe it’s best if you stop thinking for a while.’
I get out and walk the short distance to the front door. It opens with a click and the same square block of a man appears in the doorway, stepping back with no expression in his face. The door to the living room is open. A woman in a plaid shirt and tight jeans sits on one of the white sofas. In her hand, she is holding a crystal glass with a pink clear liquid. Champagne?
‘My wife, Fiona.’ Nodding casually Carter moves towards a tray table with bottles and crystal glasses on a spotless mirror. ‘What can I get you, Mr Tregunna?’
I must admit that Carter deserves some admiration. He’s won the first point. His attitude of casual friendliness is the last thing I expected. I feel like a balloon deflating quickly, not having noticed the punch. My anger escapes with the air. ‘No thank you.’
‘You’re not driving.’
‘No. I’m on medication.’
‘Tonic? Fruit juice?’ He looks at me, his eyes avoiding the bulge under my jacket either deliberately or because he doesn’t know about it. Or is just being polite?
‘Fruit juice please.’ My anger gone, I don’t even know what I’m doing here.
‘What is the nature of this visit, Mr Tregunna?’ He smiles, but his eyes are stone-cold. Dangerous.
His wife sits quietly, her feet in black leather pumps, neatly next to each other. The glow of the setting sun is reflected in her eyes. Her blonde hair is cut in a bob, but she’s left it too long to have it cut properly. She looks as if she doesn’t care. Her mouth is tightened and a deep frown sits between her brows. She doesn’t seem in the least interested in my presence. I simply don’t exist.
‘I have almost finished my enquiries,’ I reply slowly, as if preparing for a long monologue. He doesn’t interrupt, although his brows rise in an act of mock surprise. ‘Almost. I need some clarification on one or two minor points.’
‘You could have saved yourself the trip, Mr Tregunna.’
‘I know what happened last week when your daughter and her friend were missing. I know where they went and why.’
‘You’ve been working hard.’
‘I have.’ I feel like I’m a male tiger being let into the cage of a rival. We are circling each other, waiting for a sudden attack from the other one. Meanwhile, female tigers are dozing in oblivion.
‘All I need to clarify is why you, or your wife, didn’t report your daughter missing.’
‘Nothing happened to our daughter, Mr Tregunna.’
‘No. But you couldn’t know that, Mr Carter. Or did you?’
Fiona Carter gulps her champagne, licking her lips. Her eyes are pools of contempt and pain. Her lips move, but as Carter flicks his fingers, no sound comes out.
I clear my throat and bluff. ‘Either you knew exactly where she was, or I can accuse you of neglect.’
His wife has frozen still. An animal-like whimper comes from the back of her throat and her eyes shoot in different directions. She moves to the edge of the sofa, but her legs fail or she obeys an invisible gesture of her husband.
‘You are right, Mr Tregunna. I knew where she was.’
‘So why lie about it?’
‘Shall we change the subject, Mr Tregunna? Do you like sport?' His smile hasn’t reached his eyes. 'What do you think? Who will win this weekend’s Formula 1 race?’
31
‘You said you have remembered something about Hugo Holmes, Mrs Robson.’
She has come to Newquay but refused to meet at the police station. She doesn’t like its dull grey outside walls and believes she won’t be able to handle the official approach of the police officers. After all, she is very emotional about Hugo’s death.
Instead, she directs me to a pub. It’s too early for the evening rush of regular pub goers. We are the only customers.
‘What is it that you remembered, Mrs Robson?’
She leans back, a hint of
annoyance in her eyes. ‘Are you in such a rush, Tregunna, that we have to skip the pleasantries? For instance, how was your day?’
‘It’s been busy.’ She knows that I find her attractive, but that I would prefer to keep a certain distance between us.
‘Ah well, time to relax then, now. What are you having? A pint?’
‘Lemonade please.’
‘Don’t tell me you don’t drink, Tregunna!’ Her voice is low, full of mockery.
‘I’m driving.’
‘So am I. But that doesn’t mean we can’t have a drink. After all, we’re not in a hurry!’
‘I have an appointment later.’
Her eyes narrow. ‘Well, we’ll talk about that in a moment, shall we? For now we both need something stronger than lemonade. You’ve had a busy day. Stressful, I suppose. Beer? Wine? It will help you relax and feel much better.’
A girl behind the bar – mid-twenties, chubby-faced and plump - is polishing glasses. Her smile tells me she’s heard Bee, and waits for me place our order.
‘A lemonade please.’ I lean against a bar stool.
‘And a large red wine for me.’ Bee’s eyes feel like the tips of icicles hanging off the gutters as she puts her hand on my hip in a casual gesture. ‘Shall we find somewhere more private to sit?’
The girl behind the bar stifles a grin. I feel I am in dangerous waters, unable to see the sharp rocks under the surface as Bee Robson steers me to the most obscure corner. She chooses a table furthest away from the kitchen and the bar.
‘Is there anyone waiting for you with your evening meal, Tregunna?’
I hesitate. ‘I have an appointment later.’
‘So you said. A woman?’
‘A friend.’
‘Of course. A friend. Male or female?’
I can’t mention Laurens name. I can’t possibly drag her into this. ‘Ehm … female.’ My hesitation is too obvious.
‘Okay.’ She chuckles. Her mood is lifting as mine is declining.
‘Shall we get to the point, Mrs Robson? What have you remembered that may be important for the investigation of Hugo's death?’
‘What time is your appointment?’ she replies.
There is a sudden outburst of laughter as three young men enter the pub, yelling greetings to the girl at the bar and other invisible employees. Chuckles, giggles and voices come from inside the kitchen, with greetings back. Annoyed by the interruption, Bees gulps down a fair amount of her wine.
What every body is saying: DI Tregunna Cornish Crime novel Page 21