‘My private life is of no relevance, Mrs Robson,' I say, ignoring signs that she is determined to follow her own rules in this conversation. 'First of all, we would like to inform the family about Hugo's death. And, secondly, we need to identify him officially. Dental records or other medical information will probably be the best way to deal with that.’
Elbows on the table between us, she leans forward, offering a clear view of the lace trim on her bra. Her smile is soft and warm. Her irritation has evaporated.
‘I’ll do everything I can to help you … Andy.’ A husky voice. Suggestive.
I am more and more regretting that I agreed to meet her again. Thinking about her has already kept me awake and I really don’t want to add more fuel to the situation. I should have asked Ollie Reed to accompany me. Even better, Penrose. Or just passed the message through to Guthrie or Maloney and let either of them deal with her. Instead of listening to my instincts, I agreed to speak to her myself, sensing that she would tell me something important. Something to gloat about to Maloney and Guthrie. Pathetic. Silly.
‘You don’t mind me calling you Andy, do you? After all, this is our second date.’
‘I wouldn’t call this a date.’
‘Technically not, but … who knows?’ She smiles broadly. Not in the least offended. ‘But from now on I will call you Andy.
‘If you insist.’
‘I do, actually.’
Looking down, I centre my glass on a beer coaster. I formulate in my mind the words to get her on track, but she speaks before me.
‘I didn’t tell you the truth, Andy. About two or three months after me and Hugo split up, I saw him in Truro,’ she blurts. ‘He was waiting outside a ladies lingerie-shop. Most men don’t like going in shops like that. Do you?’
‘I have no reason to.’
‘Oh Andy! I’m sure you have a lovely lady somewhere who would love you to bring her a little pressie from a lingerie shop.’
‘Did you see who he was waiting for?’
‘Hugo? I did. Not a very pretty girl, I regret to say. A bit of a grey mouse, unattractive. Unnoticeable. And to be honest, it made me wonder what reason she had to go in the shop in the first place. You know? From what I saw, she was hardly the type to wear sexy lace underwear to seduce poor Hugo.’ She giggles, but without humour.
She opens her handbag, shiny black faux leather with big gold-coloured locks and a thick chain to hang over her shoulder. Producing a little box containing business cards, her other hand searches for a pen. ‘I’ll give you my card,’ she says in a flippant tone. ‘It’s new. I just collected it from the printer. I had to order new ones. One of the disadvantages of moving house.' She shrugs off a hint of irritation. 'You are the first to have one.’
‘I’m honoured.’
‘So you should be, Andy. I don’t hand out my cards to just … anyone.’ She rolls her eyes, again suggestively.
I read her name and contact details. She is a senior partner of an accountancy firm which is based in the centre of Truro. More offices in Bodmin, St Austell, Redruth and Plymouth.
‘My mobile number is still the same,’ she says, secretively lowering her voice as though she thinks the three young men, now slumped around a table at the other end of the room, may want to have it. ‘You can call me, any time, Andy.’
‘Do you still have feelings for Hugo?’
Her chin comes up quickly, anger flares in her eyes. My repeated return to the murder inquiry confuses and annoys her. ‘Feelings for Hugo? What do you think? He left me. One day he packed a bag and just left. Can you imagine how I felt? Being left like that? With two young children?’
‘Was he their father?’
‘Not their biological father, no. But he was a good father to them. They adored him. And that also made me angry, inspector, he didn’t only leave me, but also my little darlings. And they are too young to understand.’
‘How old are they?’
‘Charlotte is ten and Deacon is eight.’
Deacon, the boy, scared of Mrs Morley. I wait for a moment, preparing for her reaction as I intend to change the subject again. ‘So you met Hugo outside the lingerie shop. Did you speak to him?’
‘Only for five minutes. I teased him a bit about the lacy underwear and stuff, but he said the girl only went in there because she saw someone she didn’t want to meet. Her ex, presumably. She didn’t want him to see her with Hugo.’
Her face is devoid of any expression, but I can’t miss a glint of emotion in her eyes. Unfinished business,. Jealousy. Anger.
‘He said it was her previous boyfriend. Apparently he was kind of a violent and obsessive man and he didn’t agree with the break up. Couldn’t cope with it. She was scared of this ex-man of hers and she didn’t want him to know she'd moved on and was now with Hugo. I suppose she was afraid that he would turn his anger on Hugo. It wasn’t like she’d been two-timing with Hugo or that kind of thing, but still she was afraid that her ex wouldn’t believe it.’ She pauses. That’s what Hugo told me, anyway.’
‘So, you and Hugo … just talked. There wasn’t a row, or a fight of some sort.’
‘No. It was … upsetting. I hadn’t expected to see him.’ Her voice is hoarse. She picks up her glass with two hands. Swirls the remaining inch of wine round. Unsteady. Then she gives a small smile and continues. ‘Suddenly he was there, right in front of me. I was shocked. Maybe, if I’d had time to think about it, I would have turned on my heels, but he saw me and ... I couldn't just back of, could I? So I asked what he was doing there. I wanted to invite him for a coffee or something. I don't know why, to be honest. Perhaps part of me wanted him back, but then he told me about his new girlfriend and … I suppose it was clear that there was no chance for me.’
‘Did you ask him about the … stuff he took?’
‘No. This happened only about four or six weeks after he’d left me. Up to then I hadn’t noticed that there was anything missing. When I got my head round meeting him again unexpectedly, I went back to find him. Get his phone number or something, an address, whatever. But I couldn’t find him.’ She pulls a face with disdain. ‘His little mouse must have dragged him away, scared of her ex.’
I lean backwards. ‘Are you telling me this because you believe this has anything to do with his death?’
‘Well, it’s obvious, isn’t it? He has a new girlfriend. Her ex is a violent man. He must have found out about Hugo and … well, I’m sure you can fill in the rest.’
‘Do you have the name or the address of this girlfriend? And perhaps you know who this ex-boyfriend is?’
‘I didn’t ask. Hugo didn't seem very happy seeing me. He said he thought I might be aggressive towards the girl, but there was no need for him to be afraid of that.’
‘You didn’t feel angry any more?’
‘Oh! I can’t deny that I had murderous feelings when he left me so suddenly, but gradually I started to realise that he was right. We weren’t good together any more and I thought it was best for all of us that we got separated.’
‘What did your children say?’
‘Obviously, they were sad, upset, but after all, Hugo wasn’t their biological father. They were fond of him, of course, but …’ She gestures and doesn’t finish the sentence.
‘You found a new man.’
‘Yes. Jonno. You’ve met him. He is a wonderful man. We’re good together.’ She smiles happily. ‘Jonno’s been in a relationship before. We both know what can go wrong, so hopefully we won’t fall into the same trap.’
‘Very wise.’
‘Yeah.’ She leans forward, her eyes dark and full of seduction. ‘If you give me your number, Andy, I will call you as soon as I found out who that girlfriend is – or was – and more importantly, the name of that jealous violent ex-man.’
‘I’d appreciate that.’
She has taken her mobile out of her bag and opens it. It’s pink with a curly pattern of little fake diamonds. ‘So, what’s your mobile number?’
‘It’s best to call the station.’
‘No, no, I insist that I only want to deal with you. It is your case. I want to help you catch this awful killer.’
‘Technically, it isn’t my case.’
‘Isn’t it? Well, whose case is it then?’
‘The senior investigating officer is DI Maloney. You can ask to speak to him.’
Obvious irritation lights her eyes. ‘You’re a DI. Why is he working on this case and why not you?’
‘Maloney is also …’
‘I’ve spoken with this Maloney-fellow. He didn’t sound very competent. I think you would be much better leading that case. I’d be more confident that you will find Hugo’s killer, Andy.’
Narrowing her eyes, she scrutinises my face, thinking, guessing, deciding. Then she breathes deeply, loosening her shoulders.
‘There was an incident,’ I say, finally, against my better judgement. ‘I am currently … on sick leave.’
‘Did you get shot? Hurt in a fight with a villain?’ The idea seems to excite her.
‘Nothing like that, I’m afraid.’
She narrows her eyes. ‘But you are okay, now, Andy? Healthy and active?’
‘You could say that.’
‘But still someone else is doing your job.’
‘Maloney is a good colleague.’
‘All the same … I’d prefer to ring you, Andy. If not, I’ll come to the station and insist that I only speak to you.’ A smile breaks through and she looks like a completely different woman suddenly. Her eyes sparkle and her lips open a tiny bit and yet again something stirs in my abdomen.
She knows. She’s well aware of the effect she has on men. Smiling with content and badly concealed triumph, she proceeds. ‘Come on, Andy, I know your type. You want to be better than that Maloney. You’re here because you want to solve his case.’
‘I’m not that competitive.’ I object, yet knowing that she is quite right about me. I am almost ashamed about these silly thoughts, but the truth is that I don’t like it at all that Maloney is the senior investigating officer of this case. I can't help but secretly hope that he won’t be able to unravel the different leads in the case or find out who the killer was and scattered the body parts across the county.
‘We haven’t been able to trace Hugo’s mother.’
‘Mm. As I said, I can’t help you there. But I see your point, Andy. You know what? I will have a look in the attic in case I still have some old address books and see if I can find her last known address.’
‘I’d appreciate that.’ I finish my lemonade, leaving the ice cubes melting on the bottom.
‘Another one?’ She drains her own glass and reaches for mine.
'No, thank you, I really have to go.’
Her face hasn’t changed expression, but the sparkle has disappeared from her eyes. I shake my head, look at my watch as if I have already spent much more time with her than I intended to, yet wondering what to do next. I can tell Bee Robson wouldn’t mind having dinner with me. Or something else, which I can’t.
I look at her face. She isn’t aware of my stare, as she is fumbling with something in her handbag. Her guard is down and I see a vulnerable young woman instead. Intuitively, I reach out my hand across the table, feeling sorry for her, although I don’t exactly know why, wanting to touch her and give her some strength and comfort.
She looks up, stares in my eyes as if she can see my soul. ‘Are you sure you don't want to give me your private phone number?'
'Yes.'
She smiles self-consciously. 'I’ll get my hands on it somehow, Andy, believe you me.’
32
The drive to Helston is held up by a car accident that blocks the main road for most of the morning. Life seems to have come to a complete standstill. There are dozens of policemen in yellow vests with their arms folded across their chests, talking to colleagues or gazing at mobiles. Everyone seems to be waiting for something or someone, but there doesn't seem to be anyone in charge, let alone someone brave enough to give the order to move the damaged vehicles to the side of the road and get the traffic moving again.
As the accident happened less than a mile in front of me, there is no other option than to join the queue and be patient. I rest my head back, watching the activity in front of me. Drivers and passengers have got out of their cars and are standing around talking and sharing their impatience and annoyance, making it difficult for an ambulance with flashing blue lights to get through on the hard shoulder.
Retrieving my mobile, I check my messages. Cindy Ferris has reminded me of my appointment in Treliske. I don’t need to be reminded; the date and time is etched in my memory. Facebook: an image of a dog dressed in a flowery apron, sitting up straight up open-mouthed as if it’s smiling. Like. Share. Comment. I don’t like and I don’t see any point in sharing it with my so-called, but anonymous, friends. Comment. What would my comment be? I’m rather inclined to make a cynical statement, but I dread what the various responses will be. Another image: a city-view. Workmen standing on the flat roof of a five storey building. Not seeing the point of this, I read the original post: a retired lady with nothing else to do, apparently, moaning that the men aren’t wearing helmets and safety gear. Liked by sixty-seven, shared by none, commented on by nine: oh’s and ah’s and fully agreeing. Only one woman says that she’s zoomed in on the picture and wouldn’t mind helping the second man on the left in – and out! – of his gear. I delete all my Facebook messages and end up with an alarmingly short list of four unread messages, one of which is a security warning about a bank-con urging me to follow a link if I want to keep my money safe. Another is a suggestion to buy more books in the style of the one I ordered online two months ago. The book was a present for my mother; the online shop won’t give up. A message from a solicitor in Truro. Penrose sending a copy of a chart she’s made with details about Bee Robson’s previous marriage and relationships. I flick through the names. Archer. Whittaker. None is familiar.
And there is a saved message from Bee Robson last night. Which is why I’m now stuck on the A30. She’s found a wedding announcement for Hugo Holmes’s mother. The wedding was two years ago. Hugo was his mother’s witness. Bee and her children were not invited. Glenda Holmes married David Morris and moved into his house in Helston.
More police cars are arriving. They block the other side of the dual carriageway, having diverted the traffic off at the junction a few miles further west. A second ambulance arrives. Men in green overalls with yellow vests scramble through bushes and climb over the barriers dividing the road.
A message pops up. Someone called Wendy Wilson wants to be my friend on Facebook. Curiosity mixes with boredom. I open her page and find her profile image. It’s the woman from the waiting room in Treliske. Knitting. Telling me about her tumour, Alistair. Alistair, her latest post says, is now leading his remorseless army, but the defence is in place and Alistair had to retreat and hopefully hasn’t got enough troops left for a proper regroup. I smile, reading her previous posts. Her life seems to evolve around Alistair and her daughter, who recently had her second baby, Toni. I press the button to accept the friendship request and I immediately receive a message that I am now friends with Wendy Wilson. I have two friends: Gerald Davey and Wendy Wilson. Sad. Pathetic.
When I finally arrive near the friendly looking cul-de-sac where daisies dot the grass, I find my way blocked once more. A police car with blue lights flashing, is obstructing the street. I stop next to it and a uniformed policeman gets out.
‘I’m afraid the street’s sealed off, sir.’
‘Why? What happened?’
He looks at my face as if he’s politely going to tell me that it is none of my business. ‘Do you live here, sir?’
‘I am visiting … someone.’
‘Who are you visiting, sir?’ he asks almost sceptically.
‘Sorry.’ I gesture vaguely over my shoulder. ‘I was just curious. I noticed the police.’
‘We can do w
ithout curiosity, Sir.’
‘Yes, you are right.’ I offer a smile, wondering why I don’t produce my ID card to let him know that I am a colleague rather than someone suspicious.
He nods. Points over my shoulder. ‘You can park over there.’
‘Thank you.’
I do as I’m told, park the car and get out. Branches of young trees are outlined against the sky and I can hear birdsong in the shrubs lining the pavement on one side. The street has been sealed off with blue-and-white police tape. A police officer with a serious face keeps everyone at a convenient distance.
Between two rows of detached homes is a public footpath leading into the park behind the houses. The entrance is blocked by more police tape stretched across between a fence post and a young tree trunk, fluttering in the gentle breeze. Square aluminium stepping boards lead to a white tent erected beside the gritted path. Forensic scientists are bending and crouching between shrubs and bushes on either side of the path. There is a uniformed policeman with a clipboard pressed to his chest behind firmly crossed arms, his legs spread as though to underline the importance of his presence. A colleague in plain clothes wanders in a small circle, head bent and speaking into his phone.
A dozen neighbours are grouped together around a wooden bench on which sit two elderly men with walking sticks resting between wobbly knees. Faces white and eyes big and round, they look me up and down as though they expect me to be the bearer of more bad news than they can fathom.
‘The street is blocked,’ someone declares, trying to be helpful.
‘More police?’ A woman asks, shocked, yet excited at the prospect of being important enough to being questioned.
I shake my head. ‘What’s happening?’ Police cars and an ambulance with its back doors open are parked beside the pavement that runs through the grass as if it was laid there by a drunken roadworker.
Nobody answers. I’m the outsider they don’t know. Or trust. Following their gazes, I watch a policeman emerge from the second house in a row of six detached houses, erected in accordance with a government scheme to build more affordable homes for local Cornish residents. They seem to pop up everywhere in the county, in fields in the outskirts of towns and villages: small, narrow and characterless with postage stamp-sized gardens and white plastic doors and windows. Although they are meant to help young families get onto the housing ladder, they are just big enough for two or three people.
What every body is saying: DI Tregunna Cornish Crime novel Page 22