Trevega House

by Will North

  “I don’t like how little control we’d have over the manager. Too risky. But let’s have someone check in as a guest and keep an eye out. Terry, I should think. She can pick up whatever nighttime toiletries she needs at the Boots pharmacy there in St. Ives. It’s just around the corner on the High Street, as I recall. And have her find a cheap carryall. She’ll take a cab to the hotel, not her car. Make sure she has a reservation in the restaurant for dinner.”

  “Why not me?”

  Penwarren laughed. “My dear Morgan, you have ‘police’ written all over your face. You’re a brilliant and intuitive detective but, as I’ve said before, you have no future as an undercover cop. Terry, however, still has a chance.”

  “Not to mention that she’s so decorative…”

  “I did not mention that, and I won’t go there. As soon as I reach Sir Michael, I’ll let you know and get a photo sent to Terry’s phone and yours. Patience, my dear Morgan.”

  “I missed that gene.”

  Morgan explained Penwarren’s orders. The only one pleased was Terry Bates.

  “I get to stay in a posh hotel! Brilliant!” She looked at the plain, navy-blue pantsuit she was wearing, a white silk camisole beneath. “Well, I guess I’d better pop down to the OSKA shop on Fore Street to buy something appropriate for dinner.”

  Morgan made a face. Novak just shook his head. The other four headed home.

  “Adam, I’m damned if I’m going to drive all the way back up to Bodmin now,” Morgan said. “I’ve done it back and forth almost twice daily on this case. Find me a reasonable B&B, will you?”

  “I’ve a spare room.”

  Bates shot him a look. Davies caught it.

  “That’s very kind, Adam, but I like my privacy…”

  TERRY BATES ENTERED the long, narrow dining room at the Garrack as the summer sun was lowering in the west. It was just past seven-thirty. The window-clad room was flooded with evening light and most of the white linen-covered tables already were occupied. She had luxuriated in a hot bath enriched with the hotel’s Relais du Silence-brand body oil. Now she was wearing a sleeveless calf length dress in soft, pale gray jersey, high at the neckline but cut to an asymmetrical pattern, one side longer than the other and the difference accentuated by a drawstring within the fabric just below the knee she had pulled in to emphasize the quirky design. And her legs. The clingy dove-gray dress was the perfect foil for her shoulder-length ginger blond hair, which was freshly washed and shining. She wished she’d had heels, but her Roman-style tan leather sandals had to suffice.

  She waited at the entry, hands stuffed in the garment’s side pockets, knowing she was being observed. Her room lived up to its “family run” reputation, which was to say that it was homey and comfortable but hardly five-star, except for the toiletries. The dining room, however, was something else. The furnishings were modern and chic: small square tables and sleek dining chairs upholstered in dark chocolate brown leather.

  The hostess approached with a stack of menus in the crook of her arm.

  “Ms. Bates, I presume?”

  “You presume correctly.”

  “Welcome. We have a table by the corner windows reserved for you. Wonderful view.”

  Middle-aged and assured, Terry wondered if the hostess was part of the family.

  Terry smiled at the other guests as she followed her, scanning for a man dining alone. She saw none.

  Her table was set for one, with crystal glassware and silver cutlery in a clean-lined, contemporary style. The hostess pulled out the chair facing the view. Terry pointed instead to the one facing the room.

  “This one, please. I like to people-watch when I travel alone,” she said, her voice muted. She also didn’t like her back to the crowd. It was a cop thing.

  “Of course, Ms. Bates.” The hostess left a menu and said, “Your waitress, Melinda, will be along shortly. I’ll let her know you’ve been seated.”

  In moments, the waitress was at her side. She was just a slip of a girl, barely twenty, Terry guessed, but possessed of bright sapphire eyes accented with just a touch of eyeliner.

  “May I get you something to drink, Ms. Bates?”

  Terry loved that everyone knew her name.

  “White wine, I should think. What do you have by the glass?”

  Ever so briefly, Melinda made a face. She bent down. Terry caught the scent of lavender soap, very faint. “I shouldn’t choose the house white if I were you. Italian and quite acidic. But we do have a very good split bottle of Sancerre. Roughly two and a half glasses. Good value, it is, too.”

  “Right then. I’ll try that.”

  “Back in a moment to take your order, Ms. Bates.”

  Terry looked around the room. The other diners could have been her grandparents.

  Melinda returned with a frosted silver bucket, beads of condensation sweating slowly down its sides as the metal warmed in the waning sunlight. The small bottle nestled in a bed of ice. Melinda uncorked it, poured a measure, and waited.

  Terry sipped and nodded. “You’re right, this is lovely.”

  Melinda filled her glass halfway and resettled the bottle in the ice.

  “Are you ready to order?”

  “Yes, thank you. Spoiled for choice I am with these offerings, but I’ll have the crab and watercress salad as a starter, and the seared sea bass for mains.”

  “Good choices. Both local they are. Crab’s from Newlyn, the bass is right off the boat here in St. Ives. The bass fillet has a softly spicy citrus sauce and comes with snow peas and two small flash-fried rice and coconut balls with their own dipping sauce. Southeast Asian influenced. I think you’ll be pleased. Our chef’s new, just down from someplace important in London. Dishy, he is, and single, too,” she whispered, adding a wink.

  “No single men here in the dining room tonight, though,” Terry said quietly, eyebrows lifted. “I was hoping for some eye candy…”

  Melinda nodded and looked around. “Mostly, like tonight, we get older couples. Tourists staying with us. Reckon it’s the luxury tariff keeps others away.”

  A dozen tables were occupied. In a couple of cases a pair of the small tables had been moved together to accommodate two couples dining together. Silver hair prevailed.

  Melinda squatted next to Terry’s chair and confided: “We do have a chap staying with us who dines alone, though. Handsome devil, though he’s probably old enough to be my father. Sort of a poor woman’s George Clooney, you know? Same close-trimmed beard, touch of gray. Italian, he is. Barely speaks English though he understands well enough. He comes in when most everyone else has finished. A loner, I guess. Works out in our little fitness center beforehand, I’m told.”

  “And showers first, I hope,” Terry grinned. “Sounds interesting.”

  “Oh, he’s a bit old for someone like you, if I may say so. Of course, there’s some women…” she stood and giggled, her hand cupped over her mouth, blue eye’s dancing.

  Terry smiled and shook her head. “I’m not one of them, Melinda.”

  Melinda shook her head. “I didn’t mean…”

  “I know. Now, how about that salad?”

  The young woman blushed: “Back in just a tick.”

  Terry wondered if she’d ever been that young or girlish. After her mother had died, she’d been the caretaker of the house, looking after her father and younger brother. Too busy, really, to have an adolescence, especially after her grief-stricken father took to drink and her brother took to drugs and finally ran off. She’d soldiered straight through those years, ever watchful. The habits stuck and served her well as a policewoman. Still watchful. Vigilant. And just as lonely.

  Her smart phone, deep in the left pocket of her dress, vibrated. She pulled it out. It was from Penwarren, forwarding a photo sent by Sir Michael of his son. It looked out of date from the clothes the man was wearing. It would be hard to make a match.

  Twenty-Seven

  PENWARREN WAS AT home in Padstow when his mobile came to life. He�
��d never found a ring tone he liked, so he’d stuck with the sound of a regular phone.

  “Calum. Good evening. I was just heading off to dinner in town. Is this about the items discovered at the Tinners?”

  “Yes, sir. Forensics have not got into the laptop yet—it’s rather a mess—wet and slimed with food waste. But they have, very carefully, examined the last few pages of the reservations book. They’re clean and Mary Trevean’s fingerprints are clear. She had registered only one renter before her death, a ‘Geremio Riso.’ He was in the Chicken Coop cottage. He had been for two weeks before her murder.”

  Penwarren gazed out his arched window overlooking the harbor.

  “Morgan and Terry think they’ve found him, Calum. In a hotel in St. Ives. Terry is staying there tonight, keeping obbo. I couldn’t let them take him in this afternoon. We had nothing to go on.”

  “But now you do.”

  “No, not yet. Being a renter is not the same as being a murderer. We still have no link.”

  “The cushion may help.”

  “Where’s that DNA analysis?”

  “The samples were so faint we sent it to a specialty lab up in Bristol.”

  “We’re about to take in a person of interest who may be a murder suspect. We cannot wait. I’ll lay into that lab in the morning. If the cushion samples tell us something new, we’ll have means as well as opportunity. What we won’t have, and it is baffling to me, frankly, is motive. Not to mention, what’s this to do with the events at Trevega House we suspect Rhys-Jones to have caused, if it even is him?”

  “When I searched the depression in the ground at the mine shaft near the dead animal, I found a few things. Useless denim threads, again, but whoever ducked in there hid in a thicket of thorny gorse and bramble and left a couple of hairs behind. Mighty unpleasant hiding place, the thorns clawing at you. There was a fragment of follicle on one of the samples and our lab’s getting a DNA profile. But because the sample is fragmentary, they won’t claim more than a sixty percent chance of accuracy. Not much to go on. The Crown Prosecution Service probably would dismiss it, whatever they find.”

  “Unless we learn more.”

  “If there’s more to be learned through interrogation, Morgan will unearth it. She’s ace in the interview room.”

  Penwarren paused and took in the water view beyond his sitting room window, thinking about Morgan but also about Rebecca, and his loss.

  “Calum?”

  “Sir?”

  “You’re very fond of her, aren’t you?”

  “Sir?”

  “Morgan.”

  “Uh…well, I suppose as fond as anyone could be of that woman. A handful she is.”

  “Calum, meaningful relationships can be so fleeting and so fragile. Sometimes you have to seize them and protect them, no matter what other pressures are upon you. Think about it. You two are as different as chalk and cheese, yes, but well-matched it seems to me and others who care for you both. Are you listening?”

  “Yes…Sir.”

  “Good. Meanwhile, if I hear anything from Terry, I’ll let you know. Otherwise, I’ll see you at Bodmin early tomorrow morning, yes? We may have a suspect by then.”

  “Of course.”

  “Think, Calum: There’s a big heart in that woman.”

  He rang off.

  Calum was looking at his mobile as if the Oracle had spoken.

  TERRY HAD RESISTED Melinda’s offer of a second split of Sancerre and was picking at a dessert artfully composed of lemon curd with a plum sauce atop a scoop of kiwi ice cream when he finally arrived, taking a table at the opposite end of the room, well beyond the wall of windows. The sun had dropped beneath the watery horizon and the hostess had switched on all the little table lamps, so there were tiny pockets of warm light punctuating the dining room like summer fireflies. Only a few earlier diners remained, lingering over coffee and cognac. The earlier buzz of conversation had become a murmur.

  The gentleman was fit and only medium height, with salt and pepper hair and a matching close-trimmed beard, just as Melinda had said. Terry looked at the photo on her mobile once again. The man across the room was older and his face more lined, but the resemblance was clear. She punched in Morgan’s number and got her voice mail.

  “Morgan, dear!” she said, hoping her voice carried across the dining room. “Hello darling! It’s been a successful day. I have one particular client I’m certain will become ours. The boss should be pleased. Had a lovely dinner here; wonderfully helpful and informative staff. We must visit here together very soon. Long day trolling for new customers, so I’m off to bed soon. Reckon I’ll have an early morning. Up before light and then off to be with you again. Sorry I have to be away at times like this. But all is well and you can trust me. Love you like crazy. Bye now…bye!”

  Melinda appeared. “Coffee Ms. Bates?” Her head tilted to the other end of the room and she winked.

  “No, but thank you. I’m knackered, and all this good food has made me sleepy. I’m off.”

  “See you at breakfast? I’m on tomorrow morning as well. The eggs benedict are a specialty, a bit of Scottish smoked salmon instead of the usual gammon.”

  “I hope so, Melinda. And thank you for your… kindness.”

  She rose and crossed the room, caught the lone diner’s eye, and shyly ducked her head. Melinda had slipped her his room number, as if aiding in an assignation. But that would wait until morning.

  JUST BEFORE DAWN Thursday morning, Terry stood at the reception desk in her street clothes. The manager, Barry Haselton, was not on duty. Instead a young man, pimply faced, the night clerk apparently, was behind the desk.

  “How may I help, madam?”

  “I should like to check out.”

  “So early and without breakfast? It’s included in the tariff…”

  “Other things to attend to, but thank you.”

  The clerk processed the paperwork, the printer whining, and finally looked up: “Check or credit, ma’am?”

  Terry passed her warrant card across the white desk and quickly withdrew it. The clerk blinked.

  “Please summon Mr. Haselton. Now.”

  “But this is most irregular. He will not be pleased to be disturbed at this hour. I could be…”

  “Murder is irregular, young man. Do it. By the way, have you coffee at least?”

  “Um, Yes. But night staff coffee only, I’m afraid. No espresso. Powdered cream substitute. That okay… Detective?”

  “I’ll take it black.”

  She had to wait nearly half an hour. Haselton lived off the property. The young man fidgeted but the lobby remained empty. She paced, carrying her new dress and personal items, including all of the Relais du Silence toiletries she had not used, in a worn canvas and leather satchel she’d found at the British Heart Care charity shop in Tregenna Place. In the darkness beyond the front entrance light she saw shadows moving and smiled. Dawn had begun to tinge the tops of the trees silver, like a frost.

  Moments after Haselton arrived, much indisposed, and before Terry could explain, the Italian guest strode down the corridor. He wore hiking boots, shorts, and a black tee-shirt. He had a small rucksack thrown over one shoulder. He seemed surprised to see the lady from the dining room there.

  She smiled. “Early morning for us both, Mr.…”

  “Mr. Riso,” Haselton volunteered. “Off walking early as usual this morning, sir? Back in time for breakfast?”

  The man bowed slightly. “Si. Certo, signore.”

  Terry moved closer to him and smiled. “Actually, Jeremy, I suspect you won’t. I am Detective Constable Bates. You are here on a false passport and are wanted as a person of interest in a murder investigation, among other things. You’re under arrest.”

  Rhys-Jones seemed to consider for a moment, head tilted to one side almost as if amused, then whipped his rucksack around at Bates’s head and bolted through the front entrance door where he slammed up against the substantial bulk of Morgan Davies. He twisted away
but was brought down by PC Novak. Immediately, a squad car screeched to a stop beside the entrance, its flashers painting the hotel blue. CSO Sennen stepped out just as Morgan slapped handcuffs on the prone figure at her feet. Two additional squad cars from Penzance followed. The place was ablaze with police lights.

  His face pressed into the pavement outside the ivy-clad hotel entrance, Morgan bent over and said, “Please cooperate, Mr. Rhys-Jones. You are not yet a suspect in any crime. You are only a very difficult to locate person of interest whom we should like to interview in regards to a serious crime. Unless you know something we do not, you have no reason to flee. Do you understand?”

  Rhys-Jones said nothing.

  “I’ll take that as assent, then, shall I? Now, how about you get up and let Constable Novak here lead you to a car. Thank you for your help this morning constable. I’ll meet you both shortly at the police station in Camborne.”

  Two of Novak’s CSOs emerged from the shadows on each side of the low entrance of the building and joined Rhys-Jones in the back of the squad car.

  “Where’s Terry?” Novak asked Davies.

  “Here.” She was standing in the doorway, her left hand pressed against the side of her head. “He clocked me with his backpack. There was a liter bottle of water in it, among other things. Water’s heavy.”

  He took her arm. “Let’s step inside and let me look at your head.”

  She protested but he ignored her. In the light of the tiny lobby he looked at the side of her head. A lump was developing, but there was no blood. Hazelton and the night clerk stood beside the desk, speechless, eyes wide, as if shell-shocked.

  “Nasty bump, but I reckon you’re okay.” He took her shoulders and kissed the injury. “Gotta go.”

  She grinned. “I’ll be right behind you as soon as I settle my bill.”

  Twenty-Eight

  “IF I AM, as you say, merely a person of interest, why am I in this cell?”