by BATEMAN, A P
DCI Trevithick shook his head. “The man was seventy. He went overboard, got caught up in his lines…”
“He was seventy, but he was as fit as a fiddle,” O’Bryan interrupted. “He dug graves, trimmed and tended the gardens of rest. He set and pulled up his lobster and crab pots most days. By hand. I suspect he was fitter than anybody in this room.”
“But he couldn’t swim,” Trevithick protested.
“No? DC Adams told you different.”
“The statement from his wife said he hadn’t swum in years!”
“But that would indicate that he could swim, and you don’t forget how to swim. It comes back pretty quickly if you fall over the side of a boat.”
“I hear you weren’t so familiar with swimming last night,” Trevithick scoffed. “We all know you can swim. Better than those you try to save, at least…”
“One more word!” O’Bryan snapped. He stepped closer, just a pace separating the two men. “I dare you.” He glanced sideways at DS Hosking. “This come from you?”
“No!” she snapped, her face flashing with anger. “Of course not!”
“Take your lover’s tiff outside,” Trevithick goaded. “We’ve got next to no budget and too many cases on our books to waste any more time on this! But it came from your other woman. My, you work fast. Is that why your wife left you? Perhaps she couldn’t keep up with your womanising?”
O’Bryan clenched his fists by his side. It was all he could do to stop himself from hitting the man in front of him. He took a breath, felt the adrenalin subside a little. “I’ve tried with you,” he said. “I was sent here to look into something, discover if there was more to it than what everyone else had taken on face value. But what I’ve discovered, and I know to be absolutely certain, is that you are a complete dickhead. You have a high proportion of unsolved cases, far higher than the national average. You have two ongoing murder investigations that are going nowhere, four and six years in and still no one in the frame. Now, Devon and Cornwall Constabulary have the worse murder investigation success rate in the entire country. Blame part of that on the eleven million tourists each year, blame the geographical size of the region, blame the cutbacks. But today, for the Elmaleh family’s case, I blame you DCI Trevithick, and you alone. I have spoken to the Chief Constable at Middlemoor, and you are to go over to Bodmin today and join CID on clear-up duties until further notice. You of course have the right to speak with your police federation representative, but at this stage I would advise it as career and pension suicide. Simply slide in and when I am finished here, you can come back and work with the full respect of your former team,” O’Bryan paused, eyeing the people in front of him. “Or not, I suppose…”
Trevithick lunged forwards, but O’Bryan drew a large circle in the air with his right hand and swept the man’s punch aside. The circle completed with his hand in front of the man’s face. He drew it back in a figure of eight and his hand slid around his throat. He stepped forwards half a pace and clenched his right hand with his left. Trevithick’s throat pressed against O’Bryan’s right forearm and his airway was shut tight. O’Bryan looked at the rest of the team as he choked Trevithick out and the man went limp, then unconscious. He eyed each member of the team in turn, then let the man slump to the floor.
“I’m going to interview a witness,” he said calmly. “See that DCI Trevithick has left the building by the time I finish.” He looked at DS Hosking, who looked back at him, her eyes wide. “And get somebody onto that coffee.”
21
“I didn’t think you’d show.”
“I seem to remember you gave me little choice.”
O’Bryan looked at Sarah Penhaligan as he handed her the cup of tea. She wasn’t the woman he had seen at the rented house in the leather dress and the comedy high heels. This was her. Hair as red as a summer sunrise pulled back in a ponytail, no makeup, not that he could tell at least, and wearing a thin knit pullover and a pair of faded jeans. She was pretty, but understated.
“Well, maybe after last night, things have changed,” he said. “Thankyou.”
“You were doing all right,” she said. “You fought against the current. Sometimes you have to go with it.”
“Is that just swimming or a metaphor for life?”
She sipped the tea from the paper cup and looked at him non-committedly. “It’s a metaphor for survival.”
“Your survival?”
She shook her head. “I’ll not talk here, but I do want to talk.”
“But you’re here to talk.”
“I’m here for a statement about the two men who beat you up.”
O’Bryan subconsciously touched his swollen, almost black eye socket. It was sore all across his cheek. “You knew them, didn’t you?”
“No.”
“You’re lying.”
“Prove it.”
“I intend to.”
She shrugged. “Like I said, prove it.”
“You know Pete Mitchell, don’t you? He works for Charles Ogilvy on Malforth Estate, just across the water from where I’m staying.” He watched her expression, there was a flicker in her eyes, nothing more. But she picked up the tea and sipped. She was buying time. “You know him, don’t you, Sarah.” It wasn’t a question now; it was a statement of fact. “He was the one with the shotgun.”
“What happens when you get to the bottom of whatever hole it is you’re digging at?”
“Pardon?”
“You heard.”
Sarah’s accent had dropped a little further down the Cornish scale. O’Bryan continued to study her face, noticed she looked defiant, resolute. He wasn’t going to hear what she didn’t want to tell. Maybe it was her red hair, her emerald eyes, but he knew she could have a temper. Perhaps it was a cliché, but he had found redheads to have hidden depths you didn’t always want to probe. He could see she was trying to keep calm. The cup of tea was on the table, her hands clenched together. “I’m based in London. I’ll be going back and continuing my duties there.”
“Exactly,” she said. “And where will that leave me when you’re gone?” She stood up. “I’ll talk some more, but not here. I don’t trust the police here.”
“Certain officers?”
“What do you think?”
“Sit down, Sarah.”
She glared down at him. “Don’t tell me what to do. Am I under arrest?”
O’Bryan shook his head. “No, I…”
“Then open that bloody door and let me out!” she snapped. “You’ll be gone from here soon, but I’ll still have my shit life and have to carry on doing what I do! Now open the door and let me out!”
O’Bryan had made more than one mistake. He had tried to keep the talk unofficial and he had negated the use of a recording system. He had no other officer present and he had closed the door on a young and attractive woman and himself. She was shouting at him and it would not go unnoticed in the offices outside. He felt flushed with anguish and adrenalin, but only by his own stupidity. He got out of his chair, tried to give her a wide berth for the door, but she was on him in a flash. She prodded him in the chest, her face just inches from his own.
“You don’t know anything!” she screamed at him. “All you want is to come down here from the big smoke and show us how we’re not as good as you, how you get things done…” She jabbed her finger in his chest again and he caught hold of her by the arms, pushed her away to arms-length. “You’re hurting me!” she shouted.
The door opened and DS Hosking stood in the doorway with DCI Trevithick. DC Pengelly hovered behind them. O’Bryan looked at them for a moment, then let go of Sarah and stepped back a pace. “It’s not what it looks…” he trailed off. He’d heard it before, hadn’t believed the words then, wouldn’t if he were them either.
Trevithick glared as him. “Not content with assaulting me, you’re hurting a witness now. What, trying to coax her into a false statement?” He stepped aside, ushered DS Hosking and DC Pengelly through. “Becky, see that
the young lady is escorted to interview room three safely. Constable, escort Acting Superintendent O’Bryan out of here.”
“It wasn’t like that,” said Sarah. “I just got upset, is all.”
“Come with me, please,” DS Hosking said impassively.
Sarah looked back at O’Bryan. Her expression was one of regret, but she wasn’t making any more waves. She followed DS Hosking out into the corridor.
DCI Trevithick turned to O’Bryan. “I’ll catch up with you later. I’m going to make some calls of my own. Don’t go too far now. How dare you lay a finger on me in front of my team…”
“You took a swing at me,” O’Bryan replied. “I could have knocked your teeth out, but I chose to subdue you instead.”
“You’ve made a big mistake.”
“You’re making a bigger one. I believe there has been a premeditated and determined attempt to shut the Elmaleh case down, to make it less than it is. I have already made findings, that I will not share at this time. Not until the taint on Cornwall’s CID is clear to me.”
“What findings? More than the bollocks and supposition you’ve come up with so far, I hope.”
“You’ll find out when the time is right,” O’Bryan stared at him coldly.
DC Pengelly placed his hand on O’Bryan’s shoulder. “This way, Sir…”
“Remove your hand or you won’t be able to use it for a month.” O’Bryan continued to stare at DCI Trevithick. DC Pengelly released his grip and stepped back. He looked unsure, but it wasn’t the man’s fault. O’Bryan relented, nodded towards the open door. “Go on then, DC Pengelly, lead on…”
The detective led the way, but O’Bryan veered away from him and walked past the CID suite. He followed the corridor with the detective calling after him, “Sir! Sir, you have to come with me…”
O’Bryan stopped, waited for the man to catch up. “You made a call, Detective Constable. It was a good call. You looked at the evidence and drew a good conclusion. DCI Trevithick deemed it no further action. He did that with Adams and his personal knowledge of the fact that John Turner could indeed swim. And he took DS Harris’ report concerning the damage to the grave which looked more in common with grave robbing than mindless vandalism. There’s a connecting factor here, and he seems to have persuaded Sarah Penhaligan to refrain from making a complaint about the man who sexually assaulted her the night two men tied me up, held me at gunpoint and beat me up. This is bullshit policing, DC Pengelly. Don’t become a part of it.”
The young man looked unsure, but O’Bryan could see he had got through to him. “What do I…”
“You turn around and go back to your workload. DCI Trevithick wanted you to escort me out. He never mentioned detaining me. Go back to work,” he said and headed for the exit.
22
Sarah Penhaligan walked out of the police station a full hour later. She exchanged words with DS Hosking at the glass doors and walked down the ramp. She looked dejected at first, but her bounce was back in her step by the time she reached her Mini Cooper in the carpark. She swung her bag onto the passenger seat and slunk down into the driver’s seat and closed the door.
O’Bryan turned and ran back to his car. He had left the station and driven around Camborne’s one-way system and parked up fifty-metres before the building came into view. He then made his way further forward on foot, saw that her car was still parked and waited. O’Bryan now started the Alfa and eased forward, catching a glimpse of the tiny Mini as it accelerated away. He gunned the engine and sailed on past the police station, catching up with the Mini quickly, then dropping back to let another car out of a junction. He was comfortable with the lead she had on him and the car between them gave him essential cover. She was a swift driver and when the car in front turned off, he had to speed up to maintain a visual. The road was quiet with little traffic. He hoped he was not obvious, but he knew that most people ignored their mirrors in day to day driving. She had no reason to suspect she was being followed, so he relaxed and settled in approximately three-hundred metres behind her.
After passing through woods and sweeping down a hill towards the sea, O’Bryan saw that they had reached Portreath. There was a harbour to the right of the beach and an island just offshore to the left. The beach looked idyllic. Golden sand, crashing white surf fringing the dark blue ocean. They were on the north coast now, and the scenery was dramatic. Huge cliffs hemmed the beach on three sides, and the surf crashed at the base of the cliffs and surged upwards, casting its spray and colourful mini rainbows in the sunlight. Here, the sea worried the shoreline, cast its anger upon the rocks. O’Bryan could see groups of surfers beyond the breakers, more making their way down the beach to the shoreline. He watched the Mini pull into the left and park on the newly tarmacked drive of an expensive-looking, and thoroughly modern property. Again, he saw that it was for let by Clive & Gowndry, the same company as the property Sarah had been working from in Barlooe.
O’Bryan parked the Alfa Romeo on the other side of the road. There were no lines and by the look of the vehicles with roof racks and stickers, surfers had parked here to avoid the fees in the carpark, which was clearly in view at the bottom of the road on the fenced edge of the beach. He could see Sarah sitting in her car. She was talking on her mobile phone. Moments later, a red Range Rover Sport pulled in behind her. A thin, balding man got out. He had the features of a weasel. His eyes were close together, predatory. There was something unnerving about the way he moved, like he had excess nervous energy. He walked over to the Mini and took a set of keys out of his pocket and handed them to her through her open window. They talked for less than a minute, Sarah nodding like she was receiving instructions. She got out of the car and walked to the house, disappearing down a set of steps. O’Bryan realised that the house was built on a split level. He imagined the lounge being upstairs affording the best view of the ocean.
The man got back inside the Range Rover and reversed out onto the road. O’Bryan got out of the Alfa and took out his mobile, holding it to his ear as if in conversation. He nodded, then stepped up to the window of the vehicle, made an act of putting the person on the other end of the call on hold. The man looked surprised, but stopped the vehicle nonetheless.
“Hi, sorry to trouble you,” said O’Bryan. “Is this your house?”
The man seemed to weigh him up for a moment. “No,” he said. “My company is handling the rental. I’m Clive Gowndry,” he paused as O’Bryan held out a hand to shake. He responded, looked disappointed in O’Bryan’s handshake and moved on. “I’m the managing director of Clive and Gowndry, estate agents.” O’Bryan frowned at the sign. The man added, “It’s just me, not a partnership. The partner thing added kudos, back when I needed it,” he smiled. “I don’t need that now. We’re the largest letting agency in Cornwall.”
“Wow,” O’Bryan said like he was impressed. He hoped his acting was up to it.
“So how can I help?”
O’Bryan smiled. “I love this house. Is it likely to come up for sale?”
“I doubt it. It’s up for a year-long let though.” He looked O’Bryan up and down, glanced across at the Alfa Romeo. “We have plenty of other properties though. There’s sure to be something in your price range.”
O’Bryan figured that from the look the man had given his clothes and the ten-year old motor, he wasn’t getting a year in a prime rental property over-looking the beach. He nodded and asked for a card. The man naturally had one to hand and handed it to him through the window. The glass was sliding up and the vehicle was backing out before O’Bryan had put the card in his pocket. He walked back to his car across the road and got back inside to wait. He thought about the estate agent’s handshake. He had learned a lot. You could tell much, if you kept your own neutral. There were limp-wristed affairs, overly-powerful and unnecessary statements of strength, dominators who twisted the wrist to put their hand on top, and there were secret society methods, designed to welcome you to a club. O’Bryan mused over Clive Gowndry’
s handshake as he waited in the car.
He did not have to wait too long. The car parked up in front of him and the man studied the house for a good few minutes then took out his mobile phone and dialled. O’Bryan noticed the car was a family people carrier with children’s sun blinds on the rear side windows. There were a family of stickmen in the rear windscreen. By the look of it the man had a nuclear family of a horse-riding wife and three children who enjoyed cycling, karate and tennis. He watched the man get out of the car, glance both ways and cross the road to the house.
O’Bryan got out and caught up with the man as he reached the driveway. “Sir, a word please.” He held up his warrant card. “DCI O’Bryan,” he said. It was easier to go with the rank that was printed on the card for all sorts of reasons. O’Bryan guided the shell-shocked man off the driveway and onto the grass verge. He could see simply from line of sight that they were out of view from Sarah inside the house. The man was shaking. O’Bryan would make it quick. “You’re going into that house for sexual services, right?”
“No… I…” he stammered.
“Save it.” O’Bryan looked at the man. He was in his forties and losing condition. He could see the man’s wedding ring. Maybe the man liked to play the odds, got a thrill out of the event, rather than just the sex. “Where did you find out about this?”
The man hesitated. “Am I under arrest?”
“That depends.”
“On what?”
“On you answering my questions,” O’Bryan said curtly. “If I do arrest you, it will drag through court and your wife will find out.”
“I’m just crossing the road,” the man sneered. “You’ve got nothing on me.” He went to turn around, but O’Bryan pushed him hard against the hedge. “Hey!”
“Quiet. You contacted the woman in there by phone. I’m figuring once for the appointment, then another for directions when you were close, and a third time to let her know you had arrived. Right? Don’t lie, the phone records will show, no matter what you do with your phone or sim card. I’m also guessing you found out about this on the internet. Your browser history will confirm as much. Your IP address will be logged.” The man looked defeated. He nodded, found it hard to maintain eye contact. “Good,” O’Bryan said. “How much?”