Betrayed in Cornwall

by Janie Bolitho

  ‘I just wondered.’ Rose smiled to soften her inquiry and refilled their coffee mugs.

  ‘He’s twenty-three.’

  Not a schoolboy as Rose had imagined, but a man. ‘Have you known him long?’

  ‘About six years, since I started secondary school with his sister, but we only started going out a few months ago.’

  ‘Where does he take you?’ Rose had no idea why she was asking these questions, only that something seemed wrong with the relationship.

  Two spots of colour appeared across Sarah’s cheekbones. ‘To the pub or clubs and sometimes we go for a walk. There’s a hut …’ She stopped. Telling Rose Trevelyan what went on in that hut was taking things too far.

  ‘Nothing changes,’ Rose said to reassure her, avoiding the mention of under-age drinking. ‘There were fields and canal walks and woodlands in my day. Lovers’ lanes, they were called then.’

  As if she had waited only for that moment for the floodgates to open, Sarah talked at length about Mark and how they spent their time. It gradually occurred to Rose that Sarah had no one else in whom to confide, she no longer trusted her own mother. She listened carefully but only because she realised that, for the moment, Sarah had put Joe’s death to the back of her mind. The pain would return but a respite from it would do no harm.

  ‘You won’t say anything, will you, Rose?’ Sarah said when she got up to leave. ‘I mean, Mum doesn’t know about Mark, and she doesn’t know I know about her and that man.’

  ‘Not a word. But remember what I said, if the police do question you, just tell them the truth.’

  But Sarah did not reply. She thanked Rose for the coffee and left looking a little better than when she had arrived.

  Rose watched her walk down the path. Aside from her grief there was something more than having seen Mark troubling Sarah. Leave well alone, she could hear Barry Rowe saying, although that was impossible now. Dear Barry. How good of him it was to have invited them all out. She ought to be more patient with him. But Etta, Rose realised sadly, now had a double burden to bear.

  She turned and went to sit on the garden bench, smoothing down the fabric of the dress she had put on for their shopping expedition to Truro. I must see Etta, she thought, I must go to her. But Sarah had said she wanted to be alone. Ought I to telephone, she wondered, or would that seem like ducking the issue? In the end she did walk down to the house. Etta was in but she was too distraught to do more than thank her for coming.

  ‘If there’s anything I can do, anything at all, just ring me,’ Rose said. She had stayed no more than ten minutes and had only a fleeting glimpse of Sarah who was outside in the garden sitting on the grass with her back to the house.

  There was no cooling breeze now. The heat had built up and was heavy and enervating. The walk home made Rose hot and sticky but her mind was working overtime. Joe and drugs, never, she told herself, and she would have to tell Jack so. And Sarah? Etta had been worried that her daughter had been taking drugs and that she was holding something back. There was Etta herself with the added complication of a married man. Heaven only knew how she found time in her busy life to meet him. And then there was Maddy to whom she had not given a moment’s thought, Maddy whose whole life would be changed so drastically by finding her daughter again. There was so much to think about it made her head ache. Perhaps it was better to wait until Jack rang later, to find out what was really going on. And at the back of it all was her own grief which she had managed to hide from Sarah. She had liked Joe so very much.

  Evelyn and Arthur returned at two thirty. Both were a little subdued and they seemed not to have bought anything. ‘We’ll give the concert a miss if you’d prefer,’ Arthur offered upon seeing his daughter’s unhappy face.

  ‘No, it’ll help me forget for a while. Music always does that to me. Oh, that’ll be Jack.’ Rose reached for the phone. ‘I couldn’t talk this morning, not with Sarah here,’ she explained quickly, hoping she had not offended him because she was anxious for news.

  ‘I understand.’

  ‘You can’t seriously think Joe was involved with drugs?’

  ‘They were found with the body.’

  ‘Oh, come off it, Jack. What does that prove?’

  ‘I’m not talking about a joint or two.’

  ‘Well, you’re wrong. Believe me, I knew that boy.’

  ‘And so shall I by the time I’ve finished.’

  ‘You see evil everywhere, Jack, that’s your trouble.’

  ‘And so would you if you did my job. Look, I know Etta’s your friend, Rose, but a word of warning. Don’t get involved this time. There’s nothing you can possibly do which wouldn’t make matters worse.’

  ‘I see. Is that some sort of a threat?’

  Jack sighed deeply. He could never win with Rose. ‘Of course it isn’t. I’m telling you for your own good.’

  Rose slammed the receiver down. ‘I’m telling you for your own good,’ she mimicked more accurately than she realised. ‘He just doesn’t want me to prove him wrong.’ There was nothing she could do to bring Joe back but Etta would find some solace if it could be proved that Joe’s death was an accident, that it was nothing as sordid as Jack Pearce had suggested.

  Rose had been right. As the soaring voices of the unaccompanied choir reached the rafters of the church they soothed her. She closed her eyes, shutting out everything apart from the rich notes as they swelled and receded. As always, when they sang ‘Trelawney’, tears filled her eyes. But they were not just for Joe, they were for everyone: for the Cornish men who had died in battle, for David and for anyone who had suffered. Yet underlying that was a sense of her own happiness, the knowledge that she had so much and that, despite everything, her life had taken on new meaning without her having done anything to deserve it. And no matter what Jack says, I can’t let this rest, she decided as the choir bowed and the audience clapped and demanded an encore.

  When Sarah left Rose’s house on Saturday morning her temporarily lifted spirits sank again. Depression enveloped her in the same way as the heat rising from the pavement did. She knew it was partly due to her apprehension over Joe’s funeral where she was sure to break down. Her grandparents had curtailed their holiday in France and were expected to arrive sometime during the evening. They would be exhausted by the non-stop drive. Her other grandparents were due to arrive tomorrow. They were making the long journey from Scotland by train.

  Etta had cancelled all bookings until the end of the season, promising to return any deposits she had received. Even so, Ed’s parents had opted to stay in a guest house which had ground-floor accommodation because they were too infirm to cope with stairs.

  Sarah spent the rest of Saturday at home. She lay on the grass thinking and barely acknowleding her mother who she had come to believe had never loved her.

  Things were easier when Etta’s parents arrived. They defused the tension between mother and daughter, although Etta still had no idea why Sarah seemed to resent her so much.

  ‘It’s for you,’ Etta said later in the evening when the telephone rang. She had only decided to plug the phone jack back in once her parents had arrived. Until then she had felt unable to face any more well-meaning calls. ‘It’s a young man,’ she added with a small smile. Maybe he was the cause of Sarah’s moodiness, maybe now he had rung she would become her old self again.

  ‘Mark?’ Sarah was surprised and pleased when she heard his voice. He had never telephoned her before and he obviously hadn’t seen her on the bus because he sounded the same as ever and his next words confirmed it.

  ‘Look, I haven’t been in touch because I had some business to do and I’ve only just heard about Joe. I really am sorry. I thought I might take you out tomorrow, cheer you up a bit.’

  ‘I’d like that.’ Neither Amy nor Roz had contacted her although the news was public knowledge now.

  They arranged where to meet and hung up. ‘Mum, will you mind if I go out tomorrow?’ she asked, suddenly finding it in herself to forg
ive her mother for seeing a married man now that Mark had contacted her.

  ‘Of course not, it’ll do you good.’

  ‘That was Mark, he’s –’

  ‘Your boyfriend, dear?’ her grandmother interrupted.

  ‘Yes.’ Sarah blushed and glanced up to meet her mother’s gentle smile. Perhaps she had misjudged her, maybe she could have confided in her after all. But it was too late now and at least no one had shown signs of disapproval at the mention of Mark’s name. Sarah, with the resilience of youth, began to feel marginally happier.

  Mark Hurte put the phone down. For the first time in his life he was terrified. Too late he saw the impossibility of what Terry had told him having any basis of truth, but he had no option other than to go along with him. He had been drawn in by his charm and allowed himself to be used. To cap it all he had been unable to keep his mouth shut and now he must pay for it and so would Sarah.

  There had been no reply when he’d tried her number earlier. Terry had told him to keep on trying. Mark had done so every couple of hours.

  Mark had met Terry by chance. A conversation had started in a pub whilst they waited to be served with drinks. He was older than Mark by about five years and oozed confidence but he also asked a lot of questions. He had introduced himself as Terry but Mark was no longer sure it was his real name. They came across each other several more times. Mark believed he had found a friend. But Terry wanted to hear all about Sarah and, without realising it, Mark had gradually imparted her family history.

  He could not verbalise his feelings for Sarah, other than that he liked being with her. She was attractive and sexy but there were times when he did not know what to say to her – although he felt that way with all females. And he had no idea how she felt about him other than that she seemed pleased to be in his company.

  Perhaps if he had more confidence their relationship would improve. Sarah was never at a loss for words. Maybe if he watched her carefully he could learn from her. But for the moment he had more worrying things on his mind.

  6

  As promised, Barry Rowe collected Rose and her parents promptly at ten on Sunday morning. The sun continued to beat down from a cloudless sky. Barry was wearing casual trousers and a yellow, short-sleeved shirt which accentuated the whiteness of his thin arms. In deference to the occasion Rose had put on a dress for the second day running. The straight, pale green shift heightened the colour of her eyes and her auburn hair, pinned up for coolness.

  I’ve booked the meal for one thirty so we’ve got time to do a boat trip up the Fal if anyone’s interested,’ Barry said, surprising Rose by his spontaneity as he took the Falmouth road.

  Evelyn and Arthur agreed immediately. It would be a new experience and it might be raining next time they visited Cornwall.

  Upon their arrival they decided to take the first trip going, which was not up the Fal but the Helford River. The boat was full but they had boarded early and had seats in the stern with the benefit of the breeze as they chugged slowly between verdant banks. With the aid of a microphone the skipper pointed out places of interest in a deep, strongly accented Cornish voice.

  ‘Is it really?’ Evelyn whispered to Rose when the large house high up on their left was pointed out as the one upon which Daphne du Maurier had based her novel, Rebecca.

  Rose nodded and smiled gratefully at Barry who was responsible for providing them with such entertainment.

  Lunch was eaten at the Greenbank Hotel in the lovely glass-fronted dining-room which overlooked the Penryn River and the village of Flushing on the opposite bank. Numerous small craft were moored on the river, many with people aboard, making repairs or about to cast off.

  The tables were beautifully laid and the food superb. Only once, as he pushed his glasses back into place, did Barry glance wistfully at the second bottle of wine. But to be fair to Rose she often took her turn to drive.

  Replete, they strolled down the hill past the Prince of Wales pier and entered the narrow main street to mingle with the throngs of other trippers. Some of the shops were open and the delicious aroma of pasties wafted out from the many bakers. They walked off their meal by continuing on to Customs House Quay, along past the docks and all the way up to Pendennis Castle which sat at the tip of the peninsula which formed the town. It, and St Mawes Castle, were placed strategically on either side of the Carrick Roads to defend the town from enemies.

  An hour or so later they returned to the car by way of the beach road, cutting back through a side street lined with hotels.

  ‘It was a lovely day, Barry, we can’t thank you enough,’ Arthur said, shaking his hand firmly when he had delivered them back to Newlyn.

  ‘It was my pleasure.’ Looking at the three suntanned faces, he beamed. It had been a good day and he had created it for them. After kissing Rose lightly on the cheek he made his way home and smothered cream on his nose and forehead, both of which were bright red, burned by the sea breeze.

  ‘I do hope you haven’t done any supper,’ Arthur groaned as he sank into an armchair. ‘I don’t believe I could eat another thing.’

  ‘He’ll feel differently later,’ Evelyn pointed out sharply. ‘Shall we have a cup of tea for now?’ In the kitchen she filled the kettle and got out cups, nearly dropping one when someone rapped on the kitchen window. She smiled when she saw who it was. ‘Come in. We haven’t been back long. I’ll tell Rose you’re here.’

  Jack’s eyes widened when he saw her. Rose was wearing a dress. Her bare legs were smooth and brown and strands of hair wisped around her face provocatively. She still had the ability to surprise him. ‘I came to apologise,’ he began.

  ‘I’ve just remembered something,’ Evelyn interrupted swiftly and tactfully then went to join Arthur.

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘They did the post-mortem this afternoon. There were no illegal substances in the body. However, before you start smirking, we still believe that drugs had something to do with Joe’s death.’

  ‘The packet you found?’ Rose folded her arms.

  ‘You know about that?’ How much else does she know and will keep from me out of cussedness? he thought.

  She did not answer. Sarah had mentioned it casually, Rose had not believed it to be a secret.

  ‘Anyway, I don’t want us to fall out again. Apology accepted?’

  Rose leaned back against the edge of the sink. With her back to the window, it was hard for Jack to read her face. ‘Yes. Apology accepted. You might as well have some tea, we’re just making it.’

  Jack grinned. It was safer than trying to kiss her, which was what he really wanted to do. ‘Put so graciously, how can I refuse?’

  ‘Go and talk to my parents and I’ll bring it in.’

  Jack did not stay long. Post-mortems were not one of his favourite duties, they left him feeling drained. He felt in need of a holiday, away somewhere, preferably somewhere cool. And he would have booked one if Rose would agree to go with him. He walked down to the road, where he had parked because there was no room in the drive with the two cars, without knowing that the same thought often crossed the mind of Barry Rowe.

  Rose was the last to go to bed. It had been a tiring day and her parents were worn out. She tended to forget they were in their seventies. They had been abstemious since lunch but she decided she had earned a glass of wine for no other reason than it was Sunday. And an apology from Jack was worth drinking to.

  Rose jumped, frowning. It was ten past eleven, late for someone to be ringing at the weekend.

  ‘Rose, Sarah isn’t with you by any chance, is she?’ Etta asked, sounding worried.

  Rose’s stomach muscles tightened. ‘No. I saw her yesterday morning, but I haven’t heard from her since. Etta, is something wrong?’

  ‘I expect I’m worrying about nothing. She’s been out later than this before. It’s just – well, my in-laws arrived today and I thought she’d make the effort to get home early. She’s very fond of them.’

  ‘I thought they came yesterda
y.’ Rose was stalling for time as she thought.

  ‘That was my own parents.’

  ‘She’s upset, Etta. Maybe it was too many people to face at once. Try not to worry.’

  Etta sighed. ‘And it looks as though you were right, there is a young man on the scene. Someone called Mark. That’s who she went out with this morning. No doubt she’ll turn up in her own good time. I hope I didn’t wake you, Rose.’

  ‘No. I wasn’t in bed. Take care, Etta.’

  ‘You, too.’

  Rose picked up her glass again and sat down. What was Sarah playing at? Was she staying out late deliberately, to pay Etta back? Flaunting her own affair in the face of her mother’s? Surely not at a time like this, Rose realised. And to be fair to the girl, she had let her mother know there was a young man. Her hand shook as she thought of another explanation. Sarah had not been dramatising, she had seen Mark near where Joe died and he knew it and had decided to do something about it. What on earth would it do to Etta if anything happened to her second child? Maybe Sarah had lied. Why else would she have agreed to meet Mark again?

  I’ll ring Jack, she decided. Chewing a fingernail Rose could not decide whether her action would be construed as interference or genuine concern. But there was no answer from his flat, not even the answering-machine was in operation.

  If Etta’s really worried she’ll ring the police herself, Rose thought. But it still nagged at the back of her mind. At twelve she tried Jack again with the same result. She could not bring herself to telephone the police station. No one would take any notice of her reporting a girl missing when that girl was not her own child and the mother herself had not done so.

  Too tired to think straight, she went to bed. The fresh air and sunshine had knocked her out. Even as she closed her eyes she knew there was much more to this than a simple accident.