‘The guy who collects the money in the shed, Josh Warren. There was a fishing competition going on this Saturday and he is a committee member of the fishing group, called The Swan. He lives in Rumford and works in Padstow. On his way to work on Monday morning at about quarter to nine, he went to the lake to collect the money and he found the body.’
I have spoken to Josh Warren’s friend Eddie, and decided that it wouldn’t be in anyone’s best interest to have Eddie come to the station for a statement. He was so nervous about the whole business that he could barely talk about it. I may be wrong but I have no doubt whatsoever that Eddie had nothing to do with the death of Alicia Poole.
‘I presume this Warren has been questioned?’ Maloney asks.
‘That’s right. I don’t believe he had anything to do with it. He didn’t know the victim; he had no motive to kill her.’
‘Alibi?’
‘Warren was out in Padstow with friends on Saturday night. We have checked the pub where he was drinking and the people working at the bar remember seeing him. We have the names of his friends, but we haven’t spoken to them yet,’ I explain, meanwhile thinking that, in theory, and within the time frame as we know it at this point, Josh Warren could have driven to the lake and killed Alicia. The only thing is that I can’t see him as being in Alicia’s circle of friends and relatives. He wouldn’t be so daft as to find the body himself and call the police.
Instinct, rather than hard evidence.
‘Do we have any other suspects?’ Maloney gestures at the board, looking at me as if I am about to present the name of the murderer on a silver platter.
I shrug and point at the photo on top of the board: Alicia Poole, blonde hair wet and bedraggled but happily laughing at the camera. It is a partial enlargement from a photo her husband gave us, taken on a beach during a holiday last summer. There was a tear in his eyes as he asked to have the original photo back.
‘Nothing positive so far, I’m afraid. Victim is Alicia Poole, 34 years old, mother of 9-year-old Briony and wife of Kenneth Poole who runs several estate agencies in the county with his ex-wife Julia. His company seems to be very successful, no sign whatsoever that the death of his wife is related to his business.’ I point at the question mark behind Kenneth Poole’s name. ‘We haven’t been able to find a motive and his alibi for Saturday night is solid. He played golf all day on Saturday and he spent the night with his secretary in a hotel which is close to his golf club.’
‘Alibi checked with the secretary?’
‘We have. Her story is the same as his. The night receptionist of the hotel remembers them checking in. He said it was obvious that they weren’t married and he could spot an illicit liaison a mile off.’
‘Poole can’t have left the hotel to kill his wife and come back before his secretary woke up?’
‘There is only one exit in the hotel at night, and that is through the lounge. You’d have to pass the reception desk and the door is locked from the inside between 11pm and 6am. The night receptionist is certain that no one left the hotel that night. Or came in.’
‘Did Poole’s wife know that he was having an affair with his secretary?’
‘We believe so, yes. But it didn't seem to cause friction between them. Up to a certain level, they seemed to have an ‘open’ marriage.’
‘Perhaps things got out of hand,’ Penrose jumps in gravely.
Maloney stares at her blankly. ‘The secretary might have a motive. Had he promised her would divorce his wife and marry her instead?’
‘According to her statement, she has no obvious motive. Jenna Saunders. She is bi-sexual. She lives with a woman. Every now and then she wants to have sex with a man and it seems that she and Poole have a mutual understanding about that. It is more or less a business arrangement. Her partner knows about it and doesn’t seem to object, and, in her own words, she isn’t a threat to Poole’s marriage because she would never want to have a proper relationship with him.’
‘Okay. Go on.’
‘Trevor Bennett. He and Alicia divorced five years ago. He is now married to Maureen, who has two children from a previous marriage. Trevor and Alicia have only one child, 9-year-old Briony. The arrangement is such that the girl sees her father every other weekend. This doesn’t seem to be causing any friction. He collects the girl on Saturday morning and he takes her back Sunday night.’ I pause as he steps forward to scrutinise a ‘selfie’ from Briony, curly brown hair, smiling widely into the camera of her own phone, her teeth white and uneven, blue eyes sparkling with vitality.
‘Then there is Maureen, Trevor’s wife, who may be the only one so far who has a motive. She was interviewed by DS Reed and he said that she seemed anxious that Trevor and Alicia would get back together again.’
Maloney’s eyebrows arch. Before he can jump to the wrong conclusions, I add quickly, ‘Both Trevor and Maureen have an alibi. They drove with the three children to Devon on Saturday for a weekend at her sister’s, who has some sort of a holiday site in Devon. Apparently, the trip was chosen by their 11-year-old daughter, Gillian, because it was her birthday. They spent the night in one of the sister’s holiday bungalows. Their alibi is solid as a rock.’
‘Hm. Who was the last person who saw Alicia Poole alive?’
‘We’re not sure yet. She’d gone out in Newquay with her friend Denise Shaw. From her statement, we know that Alicia left Barrie’s Bar with someone she half introduced to Denise. Alicia told her that this chap, Chris was an old friend of hers, but Denise is certain she’d never heard of him before.’
‘So we are focusing on him?’
‘For the time being, yes. That’s why we are investigating how Alicia ended up dead miles from the bar in Newquay where she was last seen.’ I turn towards Penrose. ‘Jennette? Can you tell us what you’ve discovered so far?’
‘Sure.’ Penrose shrugs and stretches her arms above her head, releasing the tension from her shoulders. Then, before getting up to join us at the board, she quickly sifts through a pile of prints. Her face has turned pink and I can see a gleam in her eyes, suggesting that she is pleased with what she’s found out. I hope that Maloney will realise that she’s spent many hours pouring over the computer screen.
She steps forward and starts to speak in a confident voice. ‘Barrie's Bar is the last known place where Alicia went with her friend Denise Shaw. Fortunately for us, this bar has cameras everywhere. The manager told me that there were some incidents last summer, when a drug dealer decided that Barrie’s Bar was as good as any place to sell his stuff. There were some fights between competing gangs. Then there was the stabbing of a young man, outside but on the doorstep. He only just survived. You may remember that, sir, it was last November. For Barrie, the owner of the bar, it was the straw that broke the camel’s back. He’s had cameras installed everywhere, with warning signs as well. Like ‘you are being watched – if you’re doing nothing illegal, you’ve got nothing to worry about’.’ She pauses briefly. ‘The cameras are even in the toilets.’
‘Looking in?’ Maloney asks incredulously.
She nods severely. ‘Even in the cubicles. But they are attached to the ceiling, looking straight down, so you don’t see … uhm … much.’ She blushes and shakes her head disapprovingly, like a prude old spinster. ‘Anyway, I have images of Alicia and her friend for the whole time. Every movement. I can tell you how many drinks they had and who they spoke to and how many times they went to the cloakroom to powder their nose, so to speak. More importantly, I’ve seen them arrive … and leave.’ She pauses, as if she’s waiting for a pat on the back.
‘I have pictures of everyone Alicia spoke to or exchanged a greeting with.’ She points with her thumb to one side of the room where a printer has a small pile of black and white pictures in its tray. ‘I even managed to see who she left with,’ she says as an afterthought, but knowing very well how important it is.
I hold my breath. ‘Good enough to be identifiable?’
She nods, glowing with pride. �
��I got him from every angle. They left together, Alicia and this man. On the photos, her friend Denise Shaw didn’t seem to be worried, so at that point, as far as Mrs Shaw was concerned, there wasn’t any indication that something was amiss.’
‘Good job, Jennette,’ Maloney exclaims, almost rubbing his hands together in his enthusiasm. ‘Looks like we’ll make quick progress with this case.’
He stares at me as if what he believes is a big breakthrough is down to him coming onto the investigation.
‘Let’s hope we will find someone who recognises this man,’ I say thoughtfully, knowing very well that it isn’t always so straightforward. Generally, images from surveillance cameras aren’t as clear and useful as we like them to be. Faces can be blurred and distorted, in other words, unidentifiable.
‘Of course we will!’ Maloney isn’t put off easily.
I exchange a glance with Penrose before she spreads out printed images of the man. They are all black and white, but, from what we know about Alicia, we can work out his height and weight. She danced with him, she stood with him at the bar, sharing a joke with the barman, they sat with Denise and, briefly, with a couple that had joined Denise for a while. Finally, they are seen exiting the bar, Alicia with her coat draped over her shoulders,
Unfortunately for us, Newquay council doesn’t have as many cameras in the town centre as in Barrie’s Bar, but Penrose and Ollie have found images that show them leaving Barrie’s Bar and sitting on the low wall of the nearby Victoria Hotel, sharing a cigarette. Then they went in the direction of the old railway track, now a public footpath, and after a while, they appeared at the other end of the railway track, at the junction where the council office and the library are. They went past the library up to Manor Road car park and left in a car.
‘Licence plate?’
She shakes her head. ‘Not yet,’ she says grimly, like a film director keeping up the suspense. ‘We have been able to follow them as they drive out of Newquay, taking the coast road, but we kind of lost them there, as there aren’t many cameras out of town.’
She points at the map on the wall, marked with red and yellow pins.
‘Assuming that they followed the coast road along to the place where she was found, we have tried to get our hands on any CCTV footage along the road. Unfortunately, we didn’t have much luck there. Most people have their cameras focused on their own exits and entrances. Where we do have a view on the road, the images are vague and distorted, I’m afraid.’
‘What do we know about the bloke’s car?’
‘All I can see of the licence plate is that it start with a W – which isn’t very helpful as it means the number is from the South West.’
‘And the make?’
‘Possibly a Toyota. Unfortunately, the CCTV images are in black and white, but we can assume that the car is probably white or silver grey.’
‘Good work, Penrose.’
He lets out a deep howl like a wolf sniffing to locate a nearby prey. ‘Next step is to find this car and the owner.’ He sounds like he is already drawing up the official papers to charge the driver with murder.
11
Having been diagnosed with bowel cancer and having undergone a major operation to remove the malignant tumour doesn’t necessarily mean that I am free of cancer cells that might decide to settle somewhere else in my body. I hate the regular check-ups. I hate the fact that I can’t feel what the cancerous cells that might have been left inside my body are doing. I hate the fact that I am powerless, that I can’t do anything about it and that I am totally reliant on doctors and nurses and laboratory technicians to find out what’s happening to my body and make decisions before I’ve even been told about it.
Worse, I hate the fact that I have to sit in a waiting room full of people, all with the same problem. I hate the way we look at one another and guess who is going to make it to the next appointment.
I dread the moment when the doctor opens his mouth to tell me his findings. I even dread the relief when I get the all-clear, as the next appointment already clouds the horizon because I know I have to go though the same ordeal again soon.
The appointment is later in the afternoon and I wish now that I hadn’t told anyone, let alone Maloney, as he more or less forced me to go home early to ‘get myself ready’. Clearly, he hasn’t got a clue what this friendly gesture means for my nerves.
Earlier, Penrose ventured the suggestion that we could try and trace cars which had driven past the petrol station near the crime before the estimated time of the murder and shortly after it. Maloney looked dubious but, in fairness to him, he studied the map before he pointed at several other roads and lanes the murderer could have taken to get away from the crime scene unseen. Penrose flinched at the total dismissal of her suggestion, which I didn’t find so unreasonable. Whether I’m supporting her idea or I’m desperate to find a distraction before I have to go to my hospital appointment, I’m not sure, but I have promised Penrose to the camera tapes from the petrol station.
It is situated on a junction on the coast road which runs between Newquay and Padstow, only about half a mile from the lake where Alicia Poole’s body was found. The building looks as though it hasn’t been painted for decades. The windows are splattered with dried dirt on the outside and condensation inside. The once white walls have become grey and grimly from vehicles driving in and out and the remains of rusty advertising boards and disused hooks for hanging baskets.
Opening the door, there is a strong smell of a mixture of petrol and freshly baked pasties. Along the walls, the shelves are stacked with all sorts of odd items that look as if they have been there for years and never sold. On the floor is a pile of plastic containers of engine oil and windscreen wash that seem to be the only items anyone buys.
A man is sitting behind a counter, one elbow on the top, holding his head as if it has become too heavy for his neck to carry. He is wearing a washed-out red sweater that is now faded pink. Behind him is an old bulky computer with a split screen displaying four different images from the cameras inside and outside. One camera must be somewhere above my head, covering the till and the door, the other three are outside, two covering the petrol pumps, the other covering the main area in front of the building. The one over the petrol pump nearest to the road gives a clear view of the junction opposite.
‘Good morning.’
The man lets out a grunt as I approach him, seemingly annoyed that I am disturbing him. He’s looking at a magazine spread out in front of him with a very short article and lots of photos of young women lying across car bonnets wearing little else than high-heeled boots and lacy thongs.
‘Hi,’ he says, not even bothering to close the magazine or cover the photos. He gazes at the screen on the till and his eyebrows rise as he realises that I haven’t filled up with petrol. ‘Yeah?’
‘I hope you can help me,’ I smile encouragingly.
‘Depends with what,’ he replies with an indifferent shrug, already making up his mind that he won’t make any effort.
Once more I smile and produce my ID card at the same time, but he doesn’t bother looking at it at all. ‘I hope you can help me with some information from your security camera system.’ I point at the computer screen behind his back.
‘Yeah?’
‘Are you the manager here?’
A shrug. ‘Sort of.’
‘I need to see the images from your security cameras.’
He looks doubtful. ‘It’s a very old system.’
‘Do you still use video tapes?’
‘I guess.’ Another shrug. He looks over his shoulder and notices a young woman crossing the street. She is wearing a uniform from a nearby bakery shop, clutching a newspaper and a glossy magazine under her arm. He licks his lips and grabs his crotch.
‘You’ll have to ask my boss. All I know is that it is a very old system. Marge complains about it all the time but the boss says he doesn’t want to pay for a new system while the old system is still working.’
‘And where is your boss?’
Outside, the woman has disappeared out of his vision and, reluctantly, he turns his attention back to me, pulling a face to let me know that the answer is obvious. ‘You’ll have to ask Marge.’
‘Thank you.’
He doesn’t move.
‘Where do I find Marge?’ I ask, patiently.
‘In the office.’ His chin moves in the direction of a door that is covered with local advertisements, posters announcing local events and business cards, all pinned on with coloured plastic drawing pins.
‘Alright.’ I’m slowly losing my patience. ‘What is your name?’
‘I am W.P. Torrington.’ He produces a name badge from beside the till and holds it in front of his chest. ‘Sales assistant.’
‘Alright, Mr Torrington, can you call Marge for me, or, your boss?’
‘Of course I can, sir.’
He picks up a cordless phone and presses two buttons. ‘Marge, I need to know where Mr Reeves is. There is someone here … uhm, I dunno. What? Yes, hang on …’
He gazes at me. ‘Who did you say you are, sir? Marge wants to know …’
‘Andy Tregunna.’ For some reason, I don’t remind him that I’m a policeman. I doubt if he paid enough attention to my ID card that he can remember.
He repeats my name and I can hear the annoyance in a woman’s voice without exactly hearing what she says.
‘Yes, Marge. Hang on.’
‘What is the nature of your enquiry, sir, Marge asks.’
‘I would like to see the security tapes from last Saturday night.’
He frowns as he listens to Marge again. It is obvious that she is not pleased with his attitude. ‘She’ll be here in ten seconds,’ he announces, putting down the phone.
‘Thank you.’
He smiles, showing an expression of relief when a customer comes in. ‘Hi. Pump 2?’
Intuitively, I follow his gaze through the dirty window. Only one car is parked next to the petrol pump. Only one pump is lit up on his till screen.
COVER THE LIES: A TREGUNNA CORNISH CRIME NOVEL Page 8