‘It’s the shed.’ Barry was on his feet and out of the door before Rose began to move. She ran after him, pulling the kitchen door inwards against the wind, straining her muscles as the rain swept towards her.
Barry coat flying, rain plastering his shirt to his body and his thinning hair to his head, yanked at the shed door and managed to get it closed despite one of the hinges having been damaged. He padlocked it shut and ran for the house.
‘Thanks. I meant to lock it earlier.’ There was nothing in there of value but the door had a tendency to fly open in strong winds. ‘Give me your jacket and go and sit by the fire. I’ll bring the coffee in.’ She laid a tray; adding a bottle of brandy and two glasses. ‘You can’t walk home in this. Wait until you’re dry then order a taxi.’ The window panes rattled and sudden draughts blew smoke back down the chimney. Now and then the logs hissed as moisture found its way into the fireplace. ‘God, listen to it.’ She hoped the fishermen who were out were beyond the storm. There would be a lot of damage done before morning.
Barry’s cab arrived at eleven. Rose wondered how he could bear to return to his awful flat over the shop. It was cramped and in need of decoration and he cared little for furniture as long as he had enough for his use. But it was his choice and he seemed content.
Rose decided to clear up rather than leave the task for the morning. She needed to think, about Jack and about Louisa Jordan and what had become of her husband. She could not back out of the job, not now. Maybe, she decided as she put out the light, I’ll finish the portrait without saying anything.
Miranda lay on her bed listening to music. The piano concerto she normally enjoyed sounded harsh to her ears. She got up and turned off the CD player. It wouldn’t be long before she would be going home. The flat was furnished. Everything she owned would fit into the second-hand car she had purchased a few months previously. She and Michael had come to an agreement. Miranda would go back and assess where she stood and, if everything worked out, he would visit her after Christmas. ‘The situation at home isn’t right,’ she had explained. ‘I need time. I’ll ring you each day I promise.’ But she had refused to give him a contact number, not that she knew it. Michael had concurred because he couldn’t force himself upon her family not when she wasn’t certain she’d be welcome herself. She had disappointed her mother and her aunt when she’d taken off for London and not told them where she would be living.
It had not been easy cutting all the ties. It wasn’t a case of forgiving her mother or hating her for what she had done. She had left to protect her. If she wasn’t around and no one knew where to find her, no one could ask any questions. And what had happened had made university become of secondary importance. If it all came out no one would have employed her anyway, degree or not. But she had begun to wonder if her fears had been justified.
She had dropped the name Jordan. In London she was known as Miranda Penhaligon, a name rightfully hers as she had been registered at birth as Miranda Penhaligon-Jordan. Her mother was proud to be Cornish and had wished her daughter to retain the name.
Rain pattered against the window. London rain which left the glass smeared; not with salt but with smuts and grease. She leaned her head against the pane and watched the traffic in the street below. Tail-lights showed as red streaks on the wet tarmac and water from the building opposite dripped from faulty guttering on to an awning below.
But there’s no salt spray on Bodmin Moor, she thought, reminding herself once more that her mother had moved, because all her memories were of Penzance and she had never been to the new place.
She ran a hand through the tangle of fair curls. I’ll just turn up, she decided. I won’t write. If they turn me away it’s no more than I deserve. She smiled wanly, aware of her London image. They might not even recognise me, she realised. After all, it had been quite a long time.
Something good had come of it though, she thought. If I hadn’t come here I would never have met Michael. But if he ever discovered the reason she had left she would surely lose him.
Joel Penhaligon was doubly grateful to Rose Trevelyan. His father’s attitude towards him seemed to have changed, although Joel realised he might be seeing him differently now, and therefore his own attitude had also altered.
On Saturday night, prior to meeting some friends, he sat down to eat with his parents.
‘Did Rose say anything to you on Wednesday evening, about your aunts?’ Roger took a sip of his after-dinner whisky.
‘No, she didn’t, actually. Not that there was much chance. Someone else wanted to speak to her after the class was over. It was strange, her meeting them by chance like that.’
‘Chance? There’s no such thing. Fate, maybe, that’s a different matter. It may even have been deliberate on their part.’
Petra watched the interaction between her husband and son and was glad that the tension between them no longer existed. In fairness, it had mostly been on Joel’s side. Now his future was settled he was much more pleasant to both of them. But it was odd, about Roger’s sisters. She had never found them easy to get on with, especially Wendy, whom Joel resembled physically, but she still missed Miranda who had been like the daughter she had always wanted. Frank Jordan had been nothing more than an arrogant bore.
‘Did Miranda ever hint that things weren’t right at home? You two were very close despite the difference in your ages.’
‘No, she never said a word. Only that she was sorry to be leaving but as she was going to university anyway it wouldn’t be quite such a blow.’
‘I don’t know. There’s something behind all this, Petra. I mean, especially now with someone trying to track down Frank. I know he owes me money and that he wasn’t as discreet as he might have been when it came to other women, but it makes me wonder if he was involved in something worse. It wouldn’t surprise me.’
‘Only one thing about that man surprises me, and that was putting the house in Louisa’s name.’
‘You have it there. Perhaps he was in more financial trouble than we knew and wanted to ensure he had a roof over his head. If the bailiffs were sent in they couldn’t take it away from her. A wife isn’t responsible for her husband’s debts.’
‘What exactly did Uncle Frank do?’
‘No one is certain, Joel. He had the financial services business but that couldn’t possibly have paid for the lifestyle he led. Shady dealings, I expect. That could explain why solicitors are trying to find him. We’ve all assumed it would be good news, a legacy or something. Perhaps he owes money elsewhere.’
‘I still don’t understand about Miranda, Dad. No matter what Aunt Louisa said, she’d never have gone off with her father.’
‘I know that, son, that’s why I contacted the police in the first place. But she was of age so there wasn’t much they could do about it.
‘When you see Rose on Wednesday ask her to give me a ring.’ She would have seen his sisters again by now but he didn’t want to bother her unduly
Petra poured coffee. ‘Do you really have to go out tonight?’ she asked Joel as she frowned at the window. The bare branches of the trees were bent almost double now and the rain lashed down, noisy and relentless. There would be a mess to clear up in the morning.
‘He’s seventeen, Petra, and it’s Saturday night. Of course he has to go out.’
Joel grinned. He was beginning to understand his father a little better. Once he would have taken the comment as sarcasm, now he realised that it arose from a dry sense of humour.
8
Inspector Jack Pearce was in an introspective mood, which was unusual. There were no current uncertainties where work was concerned, he got on with the job as best he could with the information available. Women were a different matter. What seemed to be information, a known fact about their character, often turned out to be nothing more than a particular mood. And he couldn’t fathom Rose’s present one or if it was to do with Anna Hicks.
Anna was good-looking, fun to be with and an easy conversationalist
but the relationship was only just over a week old. Jack knew better than to believe it would not change.
But he was worried. When he had arrived at Camborne police station that morning he was told that Roger Penhaligon had been on the telephone. ‘I know we went through all this before,’ he had told the officer to whom he had spoken, ‘but it seems solicitors are advertising for my brother-in-law to come forward. It’s more than a year now and we haven’t heard a word and, more importantly, neither has his daughter, Miranda, contacted us. I really feel this needs looking into more thoroughly.’ There was probably nothing more to it than a family feud or rivalry but alarm bells had rung when he learned that Penhaligon’s last words had been, ‘We know where my sisters are now, thanks to Joel’s art tutor, Rose Trevelyan. She not only teaches my son, she’s painting my sisters’ portraits.’
‘She never said a bloody word,’ Jack muttered. ‘She met me in the pub that night and never mentioned a word of any of this.’ He sighed. Of course she hadn’t. She had said there was something she had wanted to discuss with him but he had dropped his bombshell first and Rose had made an excuse to leave early.
Monday evening had arrived. Jack sat in his ground-floor flat in Morrab Road nursing a small whisky, pen and paper to hand. The road outside ran down to the sea and was lined with sturdy properties, some of which had been converted into premises for professional people. Others catered for bed and breakfast and many of the remaining houses had been divided into flats.
There was certainly something going on in the Jordan/Penhaligon family but it might all be innocent. A week or so ago he could have discussed it with Rose, now he wasn’t certain what his reception would be. It was all very well her saying she wanted friendship but he had seen the expression on her face when he had told her about Anna. He had to admit it had pleased him to recognise it as jealousy.
Without realising it he had been making a list. He looked down and read it.
Frank Jordan does a bunk.
Roger Penhaligon reports his niece missing.
No police action is taken.
At the same time Louisa Jordan moves to Bodmin Moor, closely followed by her sister, Wendy Penhaligon.
Solicitors try to trace Frank Jordan.
Penhaligon gets in touch again.
Rose Trevelyan discovers relationship between the two families. She’s the link between the family members who have not disappeared.
‘She would be, damn her. She already knows more than we do.’ The second sigh was deeper. He had no option but to speak to her. Face to face. But if he rang in advance she might come up with an excuse not to see him.
No, he decided, this wasn’t really a case, no crime had been committed. Miranda Jordan had been of age and her mother had been unconcerned, her father had run off with a bimbo and now an ancient relative had left him a few hundred quid, it was as simple as that. But it was still an excuse to see Rose. And if she was taking an active interest there might be something in it. ‘That woman’s curiosity is boundless,’ he said, talking to himself as he often did when alone.
He drove over to Newlyn and pulled into her drive. Rose’s car was there and a dim light showed through the kitchen window. It was the hall light, set on a timer, the one Jack had persuaded her to purchase and he had installed. He rapped on the door, sensing already that Rose wasn’t in. He went home and left a telephone message.
To his surprise and anger she returned none of his calls until Thursday evening. Meanwhile he forgot Frank Jordan and got on with more important matters.
On Wednesday he took Anna to the cinema. She was a little subdued but he did not know her well enough to ask what was the matter.
Rose promised Joel she would find out what she could from his aunts, although how she was to go about it was beyond her. Bring up marriage, she thought, talk about David and not having children and see how Louisa reacts to that. Joel’s confidence had increased now that he knew where his future lay. He had produced another fine drawing.
Rose worked steadily from Sunday until Wednesday when she packed up early because of her class. The storm had broken by Sunday morning and she had taken advantage of the bright blue sky and gone out to photograph its violent effects. The Zennor painting was near completion and she had sketched in the background to the portrait, outlining the position of the two figures. Soon the really serious part would begin.
Thursday morning dawned dry and sunny. December had arrived but it seemed more like April. Rose set off knowing that she would not be able to remain silent, that she would have to say something to draw the sisters out.
She pulled up outside the house, surprised to see a second car to the side of it. No one had anticipated her arrival this time, the door remained closed as she approached it. She banged the iron knocker against the wood. There was a shout from inside, two words which she could not make out. The door opened and Louisa, red-faced, appeared. ‘Mrs Trevelyan, my sincere apologies, we tried to reach you at home before you left but we were obviously too late. I expect you carry a mobile phone but we didn’t have the number.
‘Look, this is highly embarrassing, but we’ve changed our minds about the portrait. It’s no reflection upon you, I promise, and, naturally, we’ll settle the whole bill as soon as you send it. I can’t say how sorry we are for wasting your time. Something entirely unexpected has cropped up. I really can’t explain, but that’s the way things must be.’
Rose knew she must look an idiot. She was standing totally still, her hand clutching the strap of her canvas bag, her mouth open. She was unable to find a single thing to say. They know, was all she could think, they know I’m in touch with their brother and his family There is definitely something going on here they don’t want me to find out.
‘Mrs Trevelyan?’
‘Sorry. I’m surprised, that’s all. Everything seemed to be going so well. However, it has to be your decision. I’ll send you a bill, but I can’t possibly charge you the full amount.’
‘I insist. We have put you to so much inconvenience and you might have missed other commissions. I’m sorry we can’t even invite you in for coffee. We’re in a bit of a fix at the moment.’
‘I understand.’ I understand nothing, she thought. Not yet, but I will. ‘It’s all right. I’ll, um, well, I’ll make my way back then.’
‘I can’t thank you enough for the way in which you have taken this. Maybe some other time.’ She paused. ‘Anyway, please invoice us immediately.’
Rose nodded and turned away. Whatever had cropped up must have been very recent for them not to have left a message on the answering-machine last night. And it has to be to do with the daughter or the husband, she realised as she began the drive home. I’ll ring Roger and let him know. He might have heard something himself by now.
At home she got the canvas out of her satchel and stared at it. It really belonged to Louisa and Wendy, they would be paying for it. Later she would decide what to do about it.
At six she dialled the Penhaligons’ number. Roger was at home.
‘This looks more peculiar by the minute. I spoke to the police again this morning, but I don’t think they took me very seriously Damn nuisance. Still, I’m relying on you to dig around a bit. Good job you didn’t leave that canvas there this morning, you’ve got an excuse for one more visit. I hope it’s too big to put in the post.’
‘Yes, it is.’ Rose was thinking, chewing the end of her hair as she did so. It was a childhood habit which had never left her. I’ll do it, she decided. I’ll go back there again. And then another thought struck her. ‘Look, I know an inspector in the D & C Police. Perhaps if I have a word with him?’ She left the question hanging, hoping that he would say it wasn’t worth it. Roger had told her he’d spoken to a constable.
‘Would you? We’d be so grateful. You seem to have done a lot for us already Rose. Joel’s a different boy lately.’
‘I’m glad. I’ll be in touch.’ She rang Jack immediately knowing that if she hesitated she would change her m
ind.
‘I was beginning to think you’d emigrated,’ he said, trying to make light of her neglect of his calls.
‘Sorry I’ve been a bit busy. Jack, there’s something I’d like to talk to you about. Are you free some time this week?’ Once, she would not have needed to ask, he’d have volunteered to come immediately and therefore his answer surprised her.
‘How about in fifteen minutes? If you’re not busy that is.’ How cagey they were being.
Now that the arrangement was made Rose felt nervous. Have I time to change, to brush my hair and put some make-up on? she wondered. No, I never bothered before unless we were going out or he was coming for dinner. It would appear too obvious if she did so now.
Although until recently he had been a frequent visitor to the house it made her stomach lurch when his large frame was silhouetted in the kitchen window. Rose let him in, glancing quickly at his dark, handsome looks then moving away afraid of the frisson which still existed between them, at least on her side, anyway
‘How’s things?’ Jack was as unsure as his hostess as to how he was supposed to act.
‘I’m not totally sure. Would you like a drink?’
‘Just a small one. I’ve got the car.’
Rose fumbled with the corkscrew. It slid off the plastic seal as she tried to break it with the point. Jack reached out a hand. ‘Here, let me do it.’ His fingers briefly touched hers. She could feel the heat of his body and smell his familiar smell, a mixture of clean cotton and aftershave. The cork slid out smoothly and he poured the wine. ‘Now, what did you want to talk to me about?’ He guessed it would be to do with the phone call Roger Penhaligon had made to the station earlier and that he might actually glean some hard facts. As she spoke he listened carefully his chin resting in the palm of his hand. ‘How much?’ His hand fell into his lap when Rose mentioned the sum of money the sisters had agreed to pay her. ‘God, and you haven’t even finished the portrait.’
Plotted in Cornwall Page 8