‘Yes Jennette. I have a Facebook page myself.’
Her surprise is written all over her face.
‘Really, sir?’
She grins. I see in her eyes that she will have a look at my page as soon as the opportunity arises and I feel awkward realising that she will find out that I have only two ‘friends’. Maybe I should make more of an effort. Find old school friends. Previous colleagues. Yet, what would be the point? I haven’t missed any of my schoolmates, or contact with former colleagues. Why would it be necessary to keep in touch with them?
‘Anyway, here is a smaller list of people they have in common. Barry Stevens, or Steven Barry has quite a few girlfriends.’
She is now rummaging through the mass of documents and newspapers that cover her desk and gives me a sheet of paper with twelve names. Sally Pollinger is amongst them. Janice Lobb, Leanne’s sister. And another name I recognise.
41
Gerald Davey is standing close to a younger man, holding a pint of lager in one hand, laughing cheerfully. Relaxed. Not blinking. He could be leaning towards the young man because he can't hear himself speak over the loud music, but I notice his hand on the other man's arm, his thumb caressing the soft skin of his inner wrist.
'Inspector.' His eyes narrow and the smile dissolves into a more worried look. 'Is this a coincidence?'
I shrug, not telling him that I went to see him at home in the first place. His neighbour, who kindly directed me to the pub, Davey's local apparently, will let him know soon enough.
'You're not after Gerry, I hope?' the younger man asks with a mischievous wink. He already has visions of his mate being locked behind bars.
In his late twenties or early thirties, he has a tanned face with startling blue eyes and a mischievous grin in them. A tuft of dyed blonde hair seems to be kept in place with yellow gel. He is wearing casual, well-fitting jeans and a white shirt with rolled-up sleeves, unbuttoned to reveal a muscular chest with just the right amount of hair.
'Sorry inspector.’ Gerald Davey remembers his manners. ‘This is Alan. A friend of mine. Inspector Tregunna.' He hesitates, uncertainly. 'Detective Inspector Tregunna handled the case of the two missing schoolgirls.'
'Ah. Good of you to bring them back safely, inspector.'
'Thank you.' There is no point in correcting him.
'Can I buy you a drink, inspector?' Davey asks.
'A soda. Lemon, no ice.' I retrieve a twenty pound note from my trouser pocket. ‘This round is mine.’
He accepts without objecting. 'Just soda? Nothing stronger?'
'No.'
Putting his glass on a nearby table, he elbows his way through the crowd, leaving me with his friend Alan.
'Is Gerry a suspect?' he asks lightly.
'Why do you ask?'
My response takes him aback. 'I suppose it’s the way normal people like us see the police. It’s either that they are there to help us, or they are after us for something to do with a crime.'
'And you think Gerry is in which category?'
'I hope the first.' The glint has disappeared from his eyes and is replaced with concern. 'Are you here in particular to see Gerry?'
I nod, accepting a glass with a slice of lemon and a black plastic straw as Gerry returns with our drinks, holding all three glasses confidently.
'I understand the inspector has come to see you.' Alan says, his glare directed at me accusingly.
'Really?' Davey replies, not addressing anyone in particular.
I take a sip of my drink, pushing the straw aside with my nose. 'I have some questions.'
'You mean now, here?'
'I tried you at home.'
His eyes narrow, his face tightens. He blinks five time. It occurs to me that this habit must drive him mad sometimes. A possible reason for being made fun of by a room full of cruel and inconsiderate pupils. 'How did you know where to find me?'
'Your neighbour.'
'A woman? A fat woman in a tracksuit?' His look shows disgust and contempt.
'That must be her.'
'She's the proverbial nail in my coffin, inspector.' He offers a lopsided grin. 'Always sees and hears everything. Always commenting on everything I do.' He jerks his head towards where his friend is now talking to an older couple. 'Alan says we would never have bought the house if we'd known about Mrs Pig.' A rueful smile. 'Polly Piggott.'
'We can't always choose our neighbours.'
'Like we can't choose our family.' A world of experience behind his words.
'Very true.' I pull the straw out and dump it in an empty glass on the table beside us.
'How can I help you, inspector? I take it, we can talk here? You're not taking me to the station?'
'I'd like to know about Barry.'
'Barry.' The name floats from his lips to his brain. He blinks. Thoughtful. 'Barry who? I know three Barry’s.'
'A young man. Eighteen or so. Good-looking.'
'That rules out my fifteen stone uncle of fifty-three.'
'And the other two?'
'I guess the same applies to the caretaker at the school. He must be in his mid thirties. Can't say he's good-looking either.'
'Which leaves us with the third one. You seem to know who I'm talking about.'
'Maybe.' He looks in his beer and doesn't find what he's looking for. 'What do you want to know about Barry?'
'His full name, for a start.'
'Steven Barry.'
'Address?'
He lifts his shoulder in a half-shrug. ‘Somewhere in Newquay, I think.'
'How do you know him?'
'Know him isn't really the right word, inspector. He used to be one of my pupils. Left Tregarrett School three, four years ago. He must be twenty years old now, I presume.'
'Do you happen to know where I can find him?'
'He used to work in a shop. Clothes, of some sort. Men's fashion, sports stuff, that sort of thing.'
‘Did you introduce him to Leanne and Siobhan?’
‘Me?’ He stops and tilts his eyes towards the ceiling as though he’s having to dig deep in his memory.
‘What exactly do you mean, inspector? Are you accusing me of something?’
His matter-of-fact tone suddenly angers me. I punch my index finger in his chest. ‘I believe you are involved in this, yes.’
‘In what?’ His expression changes to disgust.
‘You know a lot of young girls. From school. It’s easy for you to pick out the right ones. All you need to do is introduce them to some good-looking charming guy. The girl falls in love with him and she will do anything for him. Anything. Once she’s introduced to having sex, got some experience, she’s ready for any other man who is willing to pay for her. All very discrete. The girl is scared to death and will obey her charming lover boy for as long as he chooses. Once he’s dumped her, she'll be too humiliated and scared to tell anyone.’
‘This is ridiculous.’ His face is chiselled like stone. His eyes are staring at me with contempt.
‘Or is it money? Do you receive a share?’
‘This is getting even worse.’
The atmosphere between us is stone cold. He has created a distance between us. Emotional distance. It feels like we are on different planets, drifting away from the sun into a cold, dark space. I am the one talking, but he is moving further away from the subject. Erecting a shield. Hiding behind a brick wall. With a sense of regret, I realise that, at some point, I had thought Gerald Davey might be close enough to become a friend. Or at least an acquaintance. Someone you might meet up with a couple of times a year. Not close, but … there. I had liked him. It stopped when I saw his name on Penrose’s list of mutual friends.
‘You have a very bad taste in jokes, inspector,’ he says coldly, as though he has been watching me on stage at Live at the Apollo, feeling sorry for me because nobody in the audience has laughed.
‘Tell me if I’m wrong.’
‘I don’t think I have to tell you anything.’
I fee
l a wave of despair growing in my throat. I am right about him. I know I am. He knew Barry. Leanne. Siobhan. His knowledge and experience of the girls would have made it clear to him that Leanne would be a perfect match for Barry. An ideal situation. All he had to do was make a casual introduction. The good-looking, charming lover boy did the rest.
‘Tell me if I’m wrong, Mr Davey,' I repeat.
‘No.’ He shakes his head vehemently. ‘No. I don’t have to tell you anything, inspector. In fact …’ he pauses, fumbling in his trouser pocket and retrieving a crushed twenty pound note. All of his attention is drawn towards the note as he straightens it slowly. ‘In fact, I would like you to take this back, inspector.’
He is already turning away from me, launching a missile that is programmed not to miss me. ‘I’d rather not be in your debt.’
42
The interview room is deserted. I stare at the white board where someone has drawn a spider’s web with the picture of Hugo Holmes in the middle, surrounded by names of which I recognise several. Glenda, Hugo’s mother. Oscar Holmes, his brother who has boarded a plane to bury the mother and the remains of his younger brother. Jonathan Casey. James Archer. Millicent Robson. Jenna Morris. Harold Price. Kylie Stark. Matt Prowse. Known relatives and other acquaintances.
I came to the station to check some names and places that have popped up in my mind during yet another almost sleepless night. I am in desperate need of something to do, something to focus on, concentrate, get obsessed by if necessary. I am tired, but I can’t relax. Images are flashing in my head incoherently. Some make sense, others don’t. Faces. Names. Snippets of information. Even a single word. But nothing makes sense. I was kidnapped. By whom? Why? Someone stole my valuables and handed them back the next morning. Who? Why? Carter’s men have been watching me. Why? I’m a police officer, why was he interested in me? Carter denied that his daughter was missing. Yet he thinks it necessary to have some of his men watching me. Why? I’m doing my job. Most of the time, I follow orders from Guthrie. Whenever I can, I work alongside Maloney. Is Maloney being followed? Has he been kidnapped? Or any of my other colleagues?
I was too late for the morning briefing, but Penrose left a message for me asking if I could get some information about James Archer and Jonathan Casey. I write the names on a piece of paper and sit behind my desk. It is cluttered with piles of paper, which is rather surprising now that everything is stored digitally somewhere on countless computers full of useless information.
Jonathan Casey has a clean sheet. No convictions. No drugs or alcohol-related issues in his teenage years. Adopted son of an elderly couple, mother died 6 years ago. Jonathan inherited the family home in St Austell, which he was forced to sell when his father was taken into a care home suffering from Parkinson’s disease. He did a traineeship with a plumber, but never finished his education. Had some odd jobs in the tourist season which must have left him enough money to survive the winter with only a small job as a delivery driver. No known relation to Hugo Holmes, other than that he met Bee Robson after Hugo left her.
James Archer is more interesting. He married Millicent ‘Bee’ Robson and was the father of her two children, Charlotte and Deacon. He died in a road accident.
Jimmy Archer ran out of the roadside bushes and, without looking, crossed the A30 near Bodmin. The driver of a heavily loaded supermarket lorry saw him coming but couldn’t avoid him. The crash caused the road to be closed in both directions for the rest of the day as Jimmy’s remains were removed from the scene and the police sealed the road off. On the other side of the road, the driver of a small white Ford Ka saw it happening and braked suddenly, skidded on the road and hit a red car he was overtaking. Jimmy Archer died. The driver of the red car died: a woman in her late seventies on her way to look after her grandchildren while her daughter and husband were going on holiday. The driver of the white car was taken to hospital with major back injuries but recovered surprisingly quickly. His passenger, his 16-year-old son, came out of it with only a scratch on his hand. The supermarket lorry driver never got back behind the wheel and ended up filling shelves in the early hours of the day, when he wouldn’t have to talk to his colleagues. His wife left him three years later.
For a minute, I sit and stare at all this information, grieving for the lives of innocent people who just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. If the lorry driver hadn’t stopped for a pee at a service station, if the driver of the white car hadn’t looked sideways for a second and saw Jimmy Archer being crushed by the lorry … If. Too many if’s.
Whether Jimmy Archer ran in front of the lorry because he wanted to die or because he was being chased by someone and thought he could escape, has never been proven.
‘Tregunna?’
Maloney peers over my shoulder. ‘What are you doing?’
‘Reading the post mortem report of Jimmy Archer.’
‘And who is Jimmy Archer?’
I click the button to print and close the attachment.
‘He was the first husband of Millicent or Bee Robson. The father of her children.’
‘So?’
‘I was following one line of enquiry, sir. The possible connection with Hugo Holmes. Archer could have been a jealous ex-husband.’
‘But he is dead.’
‘Killed in a road accident. No proof if it was suicide or not. The driver of the lorry seemed certain that Archer jumped out into the road deliberately. There was no suicide note. The investigation was inconclusive.’
‘Dead end.’ Maloney pulls his face in frustration. ‘We could do with some really useful information, Tregunna. Especially now that the police from Helston are involved.’
‘We’re all doing our best, but it is difficult with no motif and no more accurate time of his death.’
He nods. ‘I just had an update from Champion. She’s been looking into freezers. Do you have any ideas how many freezers have been sold that are big enough to hold at least a torso? Between the time that Mrs Robson last spoke to Hugo and when the first of his body parts was found? I don’t have the exact number but it is far too many to continue with that line of inquiry. Anyway, it could well have been a second-hand freezer, a bargain on eBay from outside the region.’ He shakes his head. ‘I’m not so sure if we will ever solve this one, Tregunna.’
‘But the death of his mother must tell us something. Their murders can’t be a coincidence.’
He snorts. ‘According to DI Corbett, there have been quite a few break-ins lately. She believes that Mrs Morris must have heard someone, went down to check and caught the burglar in the act. He threatened her and she ran off through her back garden which leads into the park. He was scared that she would be able to identify him and pulled the plastic bag over her head.’ He pauses. ‘Corbett’s theory based on the port mortem report and forensics.’
‘Have they caught anyone?’
His mouth twists in a bitter expression ‘Not yet and to be frank, I don’t think they will if the burglar lies low for a while.’
‘I don’t know. I may have something here.’
‘What?’
I point to the screen. ‘This is the PM report on Jimmy Archer.’
He stretches his shoulders and chin, moving his head from side to side. Something in his neck cracks. ‘Don’t waste your energy going over that report about Archer, Tregunna, When did he die?’ His neck cracks once more. He winces, closing his eyes.
‘More than six years ago.’
‘Then he can’t have murdered Hugo, can he? Or his mother.’
His mobile bleeps with a message and he takes it out of his pocket with a touch of relief. He slides through the menu options, looking through his text messages hoping to find one announcing a break through, then puts it in his pocket dismissively.
‘Well, you carry on, Tregunna. I can’t stop you from doing things your way.’ He smirks, then slams the door shut behind him.
The PM report says that Jimmy Archer had multiple old bruises. Mostly on
his lower back and shoulders. Around his wrists that suggested he’d been handcuffed. But he has never been in contact with police other than one fine for parking and one for driving 6 miles over the speed limit. He broke more bones in his life than a team of rugby players. His left arm twice, once below and once above his elbow. His clavicle on the right-hand side. Toes. A wrist.
I stare at the screen, knowing instinctively that the answer lies here. I read and reread the lines and suddenly it dawns on me. The absolute certainty of what had happened to Hugo – and Jimmy Archer is staring me in the face.
I print the report and make a few phone calls. I rise to retrieve the print from the printer. I check my watch. With a bit of luck Jonathan Casey will be at home. Or will be soon, after he’s taken the children to school.
I call his mobile but get a message that I dialled an unregistered number. I call the landline but get connected to an answerphone. A voice from the phone company asks me if I want to leave a message after the tone.
‘Mr Casey, this is Detective Inspector Tregunna. Can you please call me on this number as soon as you get this message? If not, I’m coming to your house. And we’ll speak later.’
Ten seconds later my phone rings. No caller ID. As ever, the first thing that springs to mind is it’s the hospital. Bad news about my blood test, my scan, anything? Jonathan Casey, returning my call?
Mirabelle.
It takes me twenty seconds to realise who she is. Mirabelle. The nurse. When we drove back from Becca’s birthday party, Curtis was able to tell us that she had two pieces of cake.
Becca.
She is breathless, as if she’s been running round all the hospital buildings trying to find a phone. ‘Sorry to interrupt you, sir, but Dr Elliott has asked me to call you straight away. It’s Becca, sir. Ehm … there has been a change in her condition. Dr Elliott would like you to come as soon as you can, sir.’
43
She is surrounded by people in blue and white uniforms. Someone, a young doctor I don’t recognise, turns his head and frowns, opening his mouth to stop me entering the room. He turns on his heels as I come forward. ‘I’m sorry, sir, but you can’t come in.’
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