Trevega House

by Will North

  “Have you run his full prints through IDENT1?”

  “Yes, of course. But there is no match in the national database. No previous record.”

  “Well, of course; I’m sure Michael never had his son charged in his wife’s beatings, just quietly arranged the divorce. Where are we on these DNA analyses? The hair sample? The cushion? Rhys-Jones’s cheek swab?”

  “All coming, Sir. It takes time. Cushion’s up in that specialist lab in Bristol I mentioned the other day. Should have results soon. The rest are in our lab in Truro.”

  “That, at least, I can handle.” He yanked his mobile from his jacket pocket and punched in a number.

  “This is DCI Penwarren. I don’t care what the hell else you’re doing right now; I want the Rhys-Jones DNA swab analysis and the hair follicle DNA as well. I know you have the technology. I want it in four hours. Or less. Someone died in connection with this person. Someone else, someone close to MI5 and the Crown itself has also died as a direct result of this person’s suspected actions. Do I make myself clear? Do I have to call Exeter to get you to perform? Because if I do, let me remind you: I am the principal CID official in your lab’s annual evaluation!”

  He didn’t wait for a response. He folded the mobile, slapped it repeatedly against his forehead in frustration, and paced the room.

  The rest of the team stood as if glued to the floor. Penwarren had always been their pool of calm. He was no longer. He was incandescent. He wheeled on them.

  “Morgan! Haul that bastard back to the interview room. Tell him his father, one of the great gentlemen serving this nation, is dead. See how he responds. Make it clear he is all alone in this now. I want him for Trevean’s murder; I want to put him away for a very long time. Terry, you’re in the viewing room. I’ve already called in Dr. Kevin White, the forensic psychiatrist. If Rhys-Jones is also responsible for those bizarre events at Trevega as this possible leg hold print seems to suggest, he’s a very sick man. White will meet you in the viewing room. So will a case investigative lawyer from the Crown Prosecution Service. When we’re done with him it will be up to the CPS to make the charge. They’ll both observe and may make suggestions about future interviews. I want this man moved from person of interest to prime suspect. Is that clear?”

  “Unless he’s a complete idiot, he’ll demand a solicitor,” Morgan said.

  “But he hasn’t yet. Too egotistical is my guess. Thinks he’s immune, thanks to his father’s previous interventions. But there will be no more of those, will there? So right now, we’re simply informing him of his father’s death. But keep the video running so we have evidence we broke no rules. We are still only interviewing someone who violated entry protocols. Are you capable of not breaking rules, Morgan?”

  To his very great surprise, Davies went to him and gave him a hug. “I’ll do my best. I am so sorry about Michael,” she said so softly no one else would hear.

  “He was like a father to me,” Penwarren mumbled into her ear, pulling her closer. “I never knew mine.”

  “Me neither. It’s safe with me, Arthur,” Morgan whispered. It was the first time she’d ever used his given name. She held him a bit longer so he could compose himself.

  Then she spun on her heel.

  “Novak! As you seem to have become a fixture in this investigation, please escort Rhys-Jones to the interview room again. Terry? Viewing room. Pay close attention; I shall want your thoughts. Let’s get on with this.”

  MORGAN CLOSED THE interview room door gently behind her, turned, and smiled. Rhys-Jones was seated again at the plain steel table.

  “Good morning, Mr. Rhys-Jones. How was your dinner last night?”

  “Execrable. Inedible.”

  “I suspect Italy has spoiled you, though I’ll admit our standard of cuisine here at the Camborne nick has not received four stars…but not to worry, because you’ll probably be missing lunch today; then again, you’d probably rate that as inedible, too.”

  “I don’t expect to be here that long; my father will handle this. He has influence.”

  She regarded him for a moment.

  “Had influence. Your father didn’t much care for you in the end, did he, Jeremy?”

  Rhys-Jones frowned, shrugged, and looked away.

  “I think you missed a subtlety in my question. Not paying attention, were you Jeremy? Nervous, perhaps? Didn’t notice I used the past tense in referring to your father?”

  “Huh?” He faced her again.

  “Your father is dead, Jeremy. Died yesterday afternoon. Heart failure.”

  “That’s impossible! He was fine! I saw him in the corridor!”

  Morgan managed a pained smile and shook her head. “Yes, it’s strange, isn’t it? There he was here in this very station, robustly alive and listening to you lying your face off yesterday. Then again, maybe he wasn’t actually ‘fine’ at all. Maybe he was crushed: his own son in jail, suspected in multiple crimes. Doctor reckons your father could thank you for the heart attack that killed him: stress and grief about what and who you’ve become straining an already weak heart. I wonder how you’ll ever get by without Sir Michael Rhys-Jones covering for you, eh?”

  Morgan looked for some sign of grief or care, but Rhys-Jones’s pinched face suggested only that this was a most inconvenient and untimely development.

  “Your father’s body has been taken to the W. J. Winn Funeral Directors in St. Ives. We can arrange for you to view him.”

  “No.”

  “No? And yet this man, no matter what you did, no matter whom you hurt, kept supporting you. A parent’s weakness, I suppose; I don’t know, having no children of my own. Still, his forgiveness is a bit hard to credit, really, given your record: beat your wife Nicola almost senseless and assaulted a female colleague in Milan. Plus, we’ve checked your university records. No shortage of complaints about you from women you dated there, however briefly. Generations ago, long before even your father’s time, we might just have called you a cad and a brute. These days, however, we call you a wife beater and a sex abuser. On top of that, we’re also thinking of you as a murderer.”

  “This is preposterous!”

  “In my line of work, that’s a four-syllable word for ‘truth,’ Jeremy.”

  “I did not kill Mary Trevean!”

  “I don’t think we’ve actually suggested that, have we? But the DNA evidence we’ve collected will sort that out.”

  “I demand to see a solicitor!”

  “And that is your right. Unless you already have a lawyer, we can summon someone from the Public Defense Service. Shall I arrange that?”

  Rhys-Jones shrugged.

  “I’ll take that as a yes, then.” She wondered if he was too egotistical to admit he needed legal help, even though he could afford it. She rose as if to leave, then stopped.

  “I was just wondering, Jeremy…When your father dispossessed you of the Trevega estate, how did that go down with you?

  “I was trying to buy it.”

  “So I understand. But he’d already gifted it to your ex-wife, hadn’t he?”

  “She has no right…”

  “And is that why you have been trying to scare her off by causing curious, but very dangerous, ‘accidents’ near the house?”

  “I don’t know what you are talking about.”

  “I don’t know why, but somehow I just don’t believe you. But good day, Mr. Rhys-Jones; I’m sure they will have saved your lunch. We’ll let you know when and if your lawyer arrives.”

  Terry was in the corridor when Morgan appeared. “Get back in there, Terry. I want to know what he’s doing: smirking, laughing, fearful, crushed, what?”

  The video and audio were still active. Dr. White was watching. Rhys-Jones circled the steel table repeatedly, alternately mumbling and raging: “That bastard! Abandoned me yet again…always does, always has. But Caprice never did. Never. She believes in me. She loves me. She still wants me…I know it. She’s there, at Trevega, waiting for me. I know she is.”<
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  “Who’s Caprice?” the CPS lawyer, Derek Martin, asked, resting his hands atop a belly which drooped below his belt.

  “I have no idea, sir,” Terry answered.

  “Find out,” Martin said.

  “Yes. Please,” Dr. White added.

  “Will you both wait here a moment?”

  She found Morgan in the corridor talking with Penwarren.

  “Who is Caprice?”

  “Who?” Morgan said.

  Penwarren shook his head. “I suspected she might have played a part in all this…”

  “Sir?”

  “Caprice was Sir Michael’s late wife. Italian ancestry. I knew her: younger than he and a hellion. Long dead, but perhaps not to Jeremy. I’d ask Sir Michael for more about their relationship, but...”

  “Let me talk with Dr. White,” Terry said.

  Back in the viewing room, Bates explained.

  For a moment, White said nothing and stared at the glass before him. Rhys-Jones had stopped pacing and now sat at the table, mumbling to himself, inaudibly.

  “This Rhys-Jones person may be obsessed with her, perhaps even unhinged by that obsession. From what I heard him saying when he was alone, it certainly sounds likely. He speaks of her as if she were still alive. Maybe to him she still is. Whoever and wherever he thinks he is, there is a part of him effectively still with her.”

  “Might that explain actions apparently intended to scare off the current residents of the family’s home here, Trevega House?”

  “It is certainly possible. But I would have to interview him and I can’t do that unless and until my colleague here from the Crown Prosecution Service recommends it. For what it’s worth, I believe this man is seriously troubled. Has he any record of issues with women?”

  “He assaults them.”

  “Yes…I rather thought he might.”

  Derek Martin finally spoke: “I should like a full record of this interview, and I shall be present for any further interviews. I take it he will not be released?”

  “No, not soon. His illegal entry is sufficient for us to hold him. But that may just be the beginning.”

  Thirty

  MORGAN HAD JUST dropped into the seat of her unmarked white Ford estate when her mobile buzzed. It was early Friday afternoon. She didn’t recognize the number on the tiny screen.

  “What?” she barked.

  “Is that Detective Inspector Davies?”

  “Is that who you called?”

  “Um…yes.”

  “Then who the hell else would it be?”

  She heard a chuckle. “Good point, Inspector. This is Roderick Nelson at Lloyds, St. Ives. I have something I can show you, privately, but cannot deliver to you. Not yet, anyway.”

  “What is it?”

  “I’d rather not say.”

  Morgan was weary. The Rhys-Jones interview had emptied her.

  “I’m just in Camborne. I can be there in about a half hour. Do you suppose you might have a decent coffee waiting for me? I’ve missed lunch.”

  Nelson laughed. “How about a latte from Mt. Zion Coffee, just down the street?”

  “Make it a double.”

  NELSON LED HER through to a private anteroom behind his office on the High Street, just above the harbor. There was a coffee waiting for her in a tall paper cup with the café’s logo on the side. Containers of cream and packets of sugar sat beside it. Also, a wrapped sandwich.

  She grabbed the coffee, black, took a sip and sputtered.

  “Jesus, that’s hot!”

  “I timed your arrival.”

  She settled into a tufted leather chair beside Nelson’s desk and summoned up her occasionally gracious alter-ego: “Thank you, Mr. Nelson. This is much appreciated. It’s already been a long day…and the night before as well, for that matter. I envy your regular hours.”

  “Not as regular as you might think.”

  She regarded him: Nelson was a broad-shouldered, trim man of, she reckoned, about forty. Not tall, but he had a presence. His longish ash blond hair had flecks of gray at the temples, but was well groomed. His eyes, she noticed, were green as the rare Serpentine rock carved by jewelers on the Lizard Peninsula on the Channel coast. Handsome devil, she thought. He wore no ring. She had a bite of the sandwich. It was crab salad, a second treat in two days. She ate more and had more coffee.

  “I’m reviving. Thank you, Mr. Nelson. Thank you very much.”

  “Please, it’s Rod.”

  “Right then: it’s Morgan, and don’t ask me what kind of name that is for a woman.”

  “I like it. It’s strong.”

  Morgan softened and smiled. “While this is quickly becoming a lovely social visit and a much-needed respite, which I confess is a nice change, you said you had something to show me…”

  Nelson sat back and smiled. “Yes. I do. But sharing it with you without a warrant is, frankly, well beyond my authority. Yet I appreciate the urgency of your case.”

  “Good. Thank you.”

  “I have here a copy of Mary Trevean’s will. I obtained it from her lawyer in town because, together, we have to settle her estate. The will was drawn up after the death of her husband. I’m going to show you just one page, the page that identifies her beneficiaries. I cannot yet reveal the rest and should not be revealing even this. For the full document to be used as evidence, I must ask you to obtain a warrant.”

  “I understand. I’ll get one.”

  “Mary Trevean had no children.”

  “Okay.”

  He slid the document across his desk and pointed to a paragraph on the second page.

  Morgan blinked and read the lines twice.

  Mary Trevean’s sole beneficiaries were Alice and Eldridge Biggins.

  She sat back and looked at the ceiling.

  “What do you think,” she said finally, “is the value of her properties?”

  Nelson shook his head. “I’m afraid I’m not qualified to determine that. I’m not a property agent. But with London finance millionaires buying up and renovating every abandoned building or barn in Cornwall, and the fact that she had three income-generating rentals, I should guess it to be a very great deal. As for the rest of her financial assets, I cannot yet reveal that information.”

  Morgan stared through him for a moment and then connected with his green eyes.

  “Which is to say that Eldridge Biggins’s money problems would be over with Mary’s death, yes?”

  Nelson fiddled with a pen on his desk.

  “Yes, I should think so,” he said when he finally looked up. “When you get me a warrant, and with her lawyer’s approval, I’ll release the entire will and her investment portfolio, which we also manage. Until then, I have told you nothing. Are we clear?”

  “If I lived near St. Ives, you’d be my banker, Rod. Thank you for trusting me with this information. And thank you for lunch. The crab was splendid.”

  He stood and took her hand in both of his. His eyes were bright. “I am delighted to have met you, Morgan. I hope you will not be a stranger.”

  “Do you flirt with all your visitors, Rod?”

  “No Morgan, just one.”

  THANKS TO AN overturned lorry blocking the A30 at the roundabout just north of Redruth, traffic was being re-routed through minor lanes never designed for such a load. More than an hour later she decided to skip stopping at the Bodmin Hub and was just pulling into the car park at the Blisland Inn when her mobile came to life.

  “Bloody hell,” she cursed. But she could not ignore the caller.

  “Evening, Sir.”

  “Calum’s got some new evidence. MCIT meeting in Bodmin at nine tomorrow?”

  “Was that a question?”

  “Certainly not.” She thought she heard him chuckle before he rang off.

  She’d just found a small table in the cozy bar at the Blisland Inn, her new local, and was about get up and order at the bar when the burly landlord, Garry Ronan, appeared at her side with a pint of Keltic ale, her
favorite. He bowed and placed the jar on the table.

  “Will you be dining with us tonight, my queen?”

  Fact was, Morgan fancied Ronan, but she tried to keep a straight face.

  “You think I came here for your company, do you, Garry? What’s passably edible tonight in this establishment?”

  “I can offer some luscious and tender crab cakes, madam, with fresh baby salad greens and a lime and tarragon dressing.”

  “Had crab for lunch.”

  “Did you, then? Didn’t know you traveled in such circles.”

  “Go on, Garry, I’m a bangers and mash sort of girl, as if you didn’t already know.”

  “We can do that for you tonight, Morgan.”

  “Get on it, then, before I fall away to a ton from starvation!”

  Ronan leaned down and rested a hand on her shoulder. “Another long day, luv?”

  She put her hand on his. “They all are, Garry…”

  “Right then, bangers and mash with peas coming up. Another pint?”

  She smiled. “Yes. And soon, please.”

  Ronan was her “landlord” in more ways than one. She also rented her fully furnished home from him. But there were nights, and this was one of them, when she just wanted to stay right where she was, at the Inn, in Garry’s company. A line from a Wordsworth poem she’d learned in school came to her: When from our better selves we have too long been parted, how gracious, how benign is Solitude… She wasn’t sure she had a “better self,” but as time went on she’d begun to long for company. Solitude was fine, loneliness was quite another thing altogether.

  Ronan arrived with her dinner, a steaming plate of mashed potatoes topped with two crisply grilled local pork sausages smothered in caramelized onions, and peas as fresh and green as a meadow in late afternoon sun. He also set down a fresh pint.

  “Do you live here, Garry? I mean above the inn.”

  “I do. Why?”

  She stared at her plate. “Nothing. No reason. Just curious. Thank you for your attentive hospitality.”

  Ronan bowed slightly again. “Could be a good bit more than attentive, Morgan, if you’d permit me.”

  She looked up.

  “I might, just…one day.”