Cold Justice

by Lee Weeks

  ‘No, but it’s life, hey?’

  ‘Do you know what they took?’

  ‘They took pretty much everything that mattered to me material-wise: all the expensive stuff like the music system, cameras, jewellery.’ Willis looked at Carter’s wrist. He was still sporting the chunky gold bracelet that he always wore. ‘Yeah, luckily I didn’t lose absolutely all my stuff. It’s the personal things like photos and mementoes that you can’t replace. They just trashed stuff that wasn’t worth anything money-wise. Cabrina was up all night thinking of more things that must have been stolen. When she wasn’t making a list, she was crying. They took Archie’s christening gifts. That finished her off.’

  ‘I’m sorry, guv, it’s a horrible thing to happen.’

  ‘What about you – has anyone ever burgled your house?’

  ‘Ours? No. There’d be nothing to steal. I take my laptop to work every day and I don’t have anything else. Tina has a telly in her room, and that’s it.’

  ‘They could use her bra as a swag bag. They’d get loads in there.’

  ‘Dan Carter!’

  ‘Just saying, that’s all.’

  ‘I don’t think I have anything I would mind about losing,’ Willis said, as she opened a packet of crisps and offered it to Carter. He declined. ‘The things I treasure are all replaceable, like photos on my laptop. They’re out in cyberspace – I can easily get them back.’

  Willis rested her head and watched the countryside pass by outside.

  She sat up at the sound of a message coming through on her iPad. She balanced it on her lap.

  ‘It’s Robbo,’ she said. ‘He’s sent us through more information on the funeral-goers. He’s broken it down for us into connections and family ties and included a map of where they live.’

  ‘He’s good.’

  ‘He’s the best.’ She began to read from the screen. ‘Seven people went up that day from Penhal. There’s the Stokes family, they live on a farm about three miles from the beach,’ she said as she brought up the map as well. ‘There were three of them there: there’s Martin, obviously.’

  ‘That’s the man who lets Jeremy’s house?’

  ‘Yes. Then there were his two children: his son Towan, who’s thirty-three, and daughter Mawgan, who’s twenty-seven.’

  ‘Excuse me a minute, this is a farming family?’

  ‘Yes, they also own the farm shop in the village.’

  ‘So, what’s he doing looking after JFW’s house?’

  ‘Not sure. Robbo says he’s looked into that and there is no trace of a letting company or any tax files that match.’

  ‘A private arrangement, then.’

  ‘Seems like it.

  ‘Who else?’

  ‘Mary-Jane Trebethin and her son Jago.’

  ‘And they are?’

  ‘Mary-Jane, aged fifty-two, owns the dress shop in Penhal. She’s divorced. Lived there for thirty years. We don’t have anything on her son Jago except that he’s thirty-one.’

  ‘Okay, so that’s five down.’

  ‘Raymonds, of course.’

  ‘Six.’

  ‘The last one is Raymonds’ son, Marky.’

  ‘Raymonds has a son, still living in the village?’

  ‘Seems so. He owns the Surfshack – a shop on the beach. He’s thirty-one, unmarried.’

  ‘Does it seem strange to you that all these men are in their thirties and they still live near their mum and dad?’

  ‘Not really. You do?’

  ‘Yes, I suppose so, but London is a bit different from a tiny village in Cornwall. How do they make a good enough living?’

  ‘Not everyone needs a lot to be happy.’

  ‘We’ll see.’

  After an hour and a half on the motorway and another hour on the dual carriageway, they saw the first signs for Penhaligon.

  Chapter 13

  They followed the signs for Penhaligon town centre.

  ‘I came here on a lads’ weekend once,’ said Carter. ‘I could probably find the exact guesthouse we stayed in.’ He leaned forward at the wheel as he scanned the streets. ‘There it is.’ He pointed out a blue and white house with a stripy awning and a pub bench and chairs outside. ‘Atlantic Blue, that’s it. What a shit-hole, but a lot of fun.’

  ‘This place looks quite lively.’

  ‘Yes, too lively on a Saturday night. Big problems with antisocial behaviour – drunken louts like me coming down from the city.’

  ‘Second right now, guv.’ Willis read out the instructions from her phone.

  ‘I see it.’ They pulled into the police station car park. ‘This place looks original 1970s,’ Carter said as he got out of the car.

  ‘From the Met?’ asked the desk sergeant.

  ‘That’s right. Major Investigation Team 17; we’re expected by DS Pascoe, is he around?’

  ‘Yes. Hello, I’m Pascoe. Nice to meet you.’ A muscular-looking man in his late forties with a faint ginger stubble and a bald head that looked like it had taken a few knocks appeared from a door behind the counter, came round and shook both their hands. He had shovel-size hands and a nose that looked like it had been broken a few too many times.

  ‘I’ve got us an office.’ He led them down the corridor and through into a room at the end of the hall. ‘Hope this will be okay. You can have whatever you need, just ask. If we’ve got it, you can have it. I started a helicopter search of the area. I expect you’ll bring down more officers if the search intensifies?’

  ‘If we shift the emphasis to here, this place will be crawling.’ Carter looked around the office; it had space for ten people at least. ‘This is great, thanks. How far is it from Penhal?’

  ‘Can be forty minutes on a busy day.’

  ‘Can we look at other options nearer, if this investigation gets bigger?’

  ‘Of course, I have a place in mind in Penhal itself, just wasn’t sure what you’d want. I had a look at the file, what you’ve got so far, it’s a strange case; it’s not the father, then?’

  ‘We’re not ruling Toby out, but there was something going on that day that was out of his control and that makes me think twice about jumping to conclusions.’

  ‘The funeral, you mean?’

  ‘Yes, and the obvious show of strength from the villagers of Penhal. Plus, one of them is trying to buy up Jeremy Forbes-Wright’s holiday home. It looked like there was some pressure put on Toby at the funeral.’

  ‘Did you ever come across Jeremy Forbes-Wright?’ asked Willis as she began setting herself up on one of the computers.

  ‘Not personally. I was transferred from Bristol last year,’ Pascoe answered.

  ‘Did you hear about an ex-police sergeant who still lives in Penhal?’ Carter asked Pascoe as he made himself comfortable in one of the office chairs.

  ‘Raymonds, right?’

  ‘That’s it. What can you tell us about him?’

  ‘I can tell you that people consider him a legend around here. In his day he kept a tight hold on things. He looked after his own; villains who he considered worth saving were steered away from prosecution and into a rugby team or a job. He looked after his community and they loved him for it. You almost had to get his blessing before you could buy a house anywhere near the border with Penhal.’

  ‘Do you think it’s still like that?’

  ‘I think it is.’

  ‘Did you carry out a search of the property for us?’

  ‘Yes, it was interesting but not interesting enough. No sign of any recent activity in there. I would say it had been a month since anyone had stepped inside there: mail on the mat, spiders’ webs in the hallway. We did checks on electricity and gas usage and there was no increase in the last forty-eight hours. There is an alarm system installed there but it isn’t working. Here are the keys.’ He handed them across to Willis.

  ‘Thanks. Raymonds and another man called Martin Stokes are trying to buy Jeremy Forbes-Wright’s house off the son Toby already; he even approached him at the funer
al service,’ said Willis.

  ‘Doesn’t surprise me. He’s single-minded when it comes to Cornwall for the Cornish. I’ve had a look at the local interest for you. The Stokes family come top of the list. Martin Stokes is a shady character.’

  ‘Why would Raymonds have anything to do with someone like that?’

  ‘He’s a cousin of Raymonds on his mother’s side. He came to live in Penhal in the 1960s. Ever since then his presence has been growing. He owns a farm. It was a small affair when he bought it, now it’s extended to take in the neighbour’s land as well.

  ‘Raymonds was questioned over corruption when Stokes was caught with a missing minor on his farm – turned out to be his cleaner’s child, who was reported missing from Penhaligon. It was never explained how the boy came to be in a room at Stokes’ farm. Charges were dropped and it was all glossed over.’

  ‘So,’ said Carter, ‘you have to ask the question, why did Raymonds tolerate Jeremy Forbes-Wright all those years if he was such a hater of all second-home owners?’

  ‘He would never do anything unless it was for the benefit of Penhal.’

  ‘Raymonds is going to have to tolerate us and a lot more besides if this investigation ends up down here. He’ll have a hard job shrugging us off when the search teams arrive in their hundreds.’

  ‘Well, it’s about time the old silverback got tested.’ Pascoe grinned.

  ‘If it does we’ll need to set up a base in the village itself,’ said Carter.

  ‘We can get someone down there to set you up in the old station. It’s the tourist office now but would be ideal to use. Ironically it was where Raymonds ruled,’ said Pascoe.

  ‘We’d better go and take a look at the residents of Penhal. Thanks for this,’ Carter said as he shook Pascoe’s hand.

  ‘I’ll be up in the helicopter again in a couple of hours,’ said Pascoe. ‘I’ll send you video footage directly to your tablet. Any areas you’re particularly interested in, let me know.’

  ‘Is the coastguard alerted?’

  ‘Yes. Fishermen will be helpful. They tend to find the floaters first. I’ve put all that in place.’

  They said goodbye in the corridor and Willis and Carter left.

  Willis read out the directions as they made their way to the coast and the road turned into winding lanes.

  ‘When we come to a fork in the road we can choose to go left towards the shops and the beach or right towards the hotel where we’re staying.’

  ‘Try the beach, shall we? You said the house is near there?’

  ‘Yes.’ Willis opened her window. ‘You can smell it. You can hear the sea.’ She kept her window down. ‘Can’t you?’ Carter nodded and smiled.

  They followed the signs down to where the road levelled out at the entrance to the beach, pulled into a small car park and parked up to watch the waves. From there they could look across to the parade of shops on the opposite side of the road from the start of the beach. The Stokes farm shop was on the far left, and Mary-Jane Trebethin’s dress shop was towards the middle of the six shops. There was a gift shop and newsagent and a small grocer’s on the end. On the same side as the car park and the Surfshack, at the other side of the beach entrance, was a café.

  ‘I bet this place is really rammed in summer,’ said Carter.

  Willis leaned forward and looked out through the windscreen. ‘Are those surfers out there?’

  ‘Yes, come hell or high water. I suppose they’re making the most of the storms on the other side of the Atlantic. It takes a day or two to reach us.’

  ‘It must be freezing in there. It’s February, for God’s sake!’

  ‘Yeah – you wouldn’t catch me in there. They’re a hardy bunch. Surfing takes over their lives. Can you get up Robbo’s map on the screen so we can see whereabouts people live in relation to here?’

  ‘Raymonds lives on the cliff side; there’s beach side and cliff side in this village. We go back up to the crossroads.’

  ‘It’s best to start with him if we don’t want to piss him off too much. We’ll come back here after. Let’s just go up and have a look at the Forbes-Wright house first. We’d better make sure we see Martin Stokes too; I want to know what the deal was with letting the house out, and see if he knows what Forbes-Wright was going to do with it long-term, considering it was his only asset. If we’re talking ransom then a kidnapper would know about it.’

  They left the car park and drove past the shops. As they passed the café, the road rose steeply and twisted its way between high hedges on both sides as it climbed away from the sea. To the left above the shops was an area of scrubland with yellow gorse and gnarled trees. Halfway up the hill and around a sharp left-hand bend the top of the house came into view and Carter pulled the car over into the gateway.

  The house had three storeys and was brick-built Victorian style with Cornish slate roof and granite gateposts. It was half-obscured by pine trees that grew to the right and left of the drive. There was parking space for five or six cars at the front. ‘Kellis House’ was written on the gate.

  ‘It’s a beautiful building but it looks sort of stern – unwelcoming,’ said Willis, staring at the austere building.

  ‘Exactly. Where are the welcoming signs? I tell you, if I’d paid two grand for a week’s holiday here in July, I’d be disappointed rocking up here at Kellis House.’

  ‘The price goes up another five hundred in August.’

  ‘You’re kidding me? We could go to Disneyland for that!’ He turned to her. ‘How do you know when this house isn’t advertised anywhere?’

  ‘I talked to a local letting agent, pretended I was interested in a house that had five bedrooms. That’s the going price for something this close to the beach. You could have somewhere like this in February for six hundred a week.’

  ‘I’d rather have one of those bright and breezy chalet-type things than this – it looks like the Munsters’ house.’

  ‘We can carry on up this road and circle back round to the cliff side of Penhal,’ said Willis as Carter pulled out of the gateway.

  ‘Okay. Let’s go pay the Sheriff a visit.’

  Chapter 14

  Raymonds lived on a cul-de-sac of smart bungalows. A flag, white cross on a black background, hung from a flagpole at the corner of the bungalow. He was coming out of his garage as they parked up on the street. He stopped to watch them approach and then turned and locked up behind him. He had the upright gait of an ex-military man; no pot-belly for him. He eyed them suspiciously, stood square on to them.

  Carter pushed open the black wrought-iron gate and headed up the tarmacked drive towards the watching Raymonds.

  Raymonds finished scrutinizing Willis and then settled on Carter.

  ‘Can we have a word?’ Carter asked as they showed their warrant cards. ‘This is Detective Willis. I’m Detective Carter. Can we come in?’

  Raymonds nodded; he waited for them to reach the front door then he walked in before them. They stepped into a pristine hallway; a plastic floor runner covered a beige shagpile carpet. There were small, tourist-style paintings of Penhal along the walls. Straight in front of them there was a cuckoo clock on the wall.

  ‘Eileen?’ Raymonds called out towards the kitchen. ‘There’s people here, we’re going in the parlour.’

  His wife came out of a kitchen at the end of the hall, wiping her hands on a tea towel. She nodded. Her eyes stayed on Willis.

  ‘Coffee? Tea?’ asked Raymonds.

  Willis shook her head, Carter nodded. ‘Love a cup of tea, please, no sugar.’ Eileen turned back into the kitchen.

  ‘In here.’ Raymonds held a glass-fronted door open. The place had collections of holiday souvenirs. On the wall was the painting of a raven-haired Spanish beauty. She had a flower in her hair, which fell down over her naked shoulder; a promise on her full red lips. There was a glass cabinet with knick-knacks from abroad. Willis ran her eyes over the shelves and saw a miniature Cutty Sark in a glass bottle on the third shelf down. When sh
e looked back, Raymonds was staring at her.

  ‘Sit down.’ He pointed towards the two-seater salmon-pink sofa. ‘Where are you from, Plymouth?’ He sat in the armchair opposite them. A small glass coffee table with a driftwood base was between them.

  ‘We’re from London.’ Carter didn’t doubt that he knew they’d come from there.

  He nodded, his face stony, waxy. ‘The Met, huh?’

  ‘We’re part of the Major Investigation Team.’

  ‘Really? What are you doing all the way down here?’

  ‘Jeremy Forbes-Wright?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘You went to his funeral?’

  ‘I did.’ Raymonds sat stiffly, his hands resting on the arms of the chair, as if he were on a throne.

  ‘You and several others from this area?’

  ‘Yes, that’s correct.’ He shook his head and smiled. ‘What of it?’

  Eileen knocked and entered carrying a tray; her hands were shaking. Raymonds got up and took the tray from her. He set it down and she left. He nodded to Carter to help himself. His tea was in the best china.

  ‘You’re a long way from home,’ he said to Carter, though his eyes settled on Willis. She didn’t answer.

  ‘Not really, it took us about five hours. Not a bad run.’ Carter decided he really wasn’t going to like Raymonds. He noticed Raymonds had beady black eyes, like a small animal waiting to rip your throat out.

  ‘Did you drive up for the funeral or did you go on the train?’

  ‘Oh, I thought about training it, but I decided to drive. We have to drive to a station from here anyway and it’s such a tedious journey till you get to Exeter.’

  ‘In your own car?’

  ‘Yes, as it happens, I went in the Honda.’ Raymonds’ smirk was still there. ‘I don’t like to push my other car too hard – it’s a classic. A Ford Cortina.’

  ‘Nice. How many of you went up?’

  ‘Six in all. There were a few cars.’

  ‘When you left the church where did you go?’ asked Carter. Raymonds looked like he had been expecting the question, waiting for it.

  ‘I went into Greenwich. I wanted to see the Cutty Sark.’ He smiled at Carter and then at Willis. ‘I bet you know that, don’t you? You have so many cameras up in London, don’t you? Always spying on people.’