COVER THE LIES: A TREGUNNA CORNISH CRIME NOVEL

by Carla Vermaat

  ‘Rose, is this about our George?’ Torrington asks, hands restless in his lap.

  Joy can’t hear him but Greg responds spitefully.

  ‘She’s Joy, father, your daughter. Rose is dead.’

  I feel like I have been dropped into a theatre where the actors are speaking lines from different pages in the script and no one seems to understand each other. I wish I had listened to Betsie Rendle when she told me about Jeremy Torrington’s situation. I should have realised that there is no point in telling him about his son’s death or asking him about his whereabouts from the last few days.

  ‘Joy? Where is Rose?’

  ‘Why are you here, inspector?’ Greg asks, ignoring his father-in-law.

  ‘I’m afraid I have something to tell you.’

  ‘It’s Wilbur,’ Joy says softly from the doorway, an empty mug in her hand. ‘Something has happened to Wilbur. I knew it.’

  ‘Oh, don’t be so melodramatic, woman!’

  ‘I knew it. It’s not like him not to come back.’

  ‘If I were him, I’d be gone ages ago.’ Greg Spicer seems to have lost all sense of sympathy.

  ‘Yes Greg, I know that.’ Tears are rolling down her cheeks.

  ‘What’s up with Will?’ The old man is puzzled, looking around as if he thinks there are more people hiding in the corners and behind the sofa.

  ‘I would like to ask you some questions about him, Mr Torrington.’

  ‘You won’t get much out of him, I’m afraid,’ Greg Spicer says bluntly. ‘He has totally lost it.’

  ‘Is this about George?’ the old man repeats. Shakily he rises from his seat and he unties the string around the waist of his track suit trousers and pulls them down. ‘I don’t like these trousers. They’re too hot and they make me itchy.’

  Joy hurries towards him to pull his trousers up over a bulky incontinence pad, quickly re-tying the string.

  ‘George was his brother,’ she explains, her face red. ‘Died in car crash years ago.’

  All of a sudden, the room is quiet. A sense of dread hangs in the air and three pairs of eyes are staring at me, waiting for the inevitable.

  I clear my throat. ‘Mrs Spicer, take a seat, please.’

  ‘No.’ She fumbles with her hands.

  ‘Okay,’ I say slowly. ‘I’m afraid that I have to tell you that Wilbur has been involved in … an accident. He’s dead.’

  ‘That’s impossible,’ Greg says bluntly. ‘I spoke to him this morning when he called Joy.’

  ‘But he was here this morning,’ Joy says incredulously, face ashen. ‘We called his boss. When he didn’t come back … we told his boss that he wasn’t well. We had no idea he was … dead.’

  ‘What happened?’ Joy whispers, reaching out for her father’s hand but he doesn’t seem to notice. He is staring into oblivion, not aware of anything or anyone. He doesn’t even listen when I inform them briefly about Wilbur’s death, adding that we are treating his death as suspicious.

  ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Spicer.’

  ‘He works at the petrol station in St Merryn. He works mostly evenings and weekends, when the others don’t want to work.’ It sounds resentful, as if her brother wouldn’t have died if he’d been able to work normal hours from nine till five.

  ‘It’s on the road to Padstow,’ her husband adds.

  ‘We know where it is.’ I don’t tell them that I had spoken to Wilbur earlier this week.

  I lower my voice. Torrington seems to be dozing. ‘I need to ask you some questions, if I may. Do you know a woman called Alicia Poole?’

  ‘No,’ Joy shakes her head, but I notice that her husband’s expression changes.

  ‘Isn’t that the woman who was in the papers the other day? The woman they found dead somewhere in a lake?’

  So far police haven’t disclosed the exact place where Alicia Poole was found, but no doubt that will change after the press conference. Still I am not about to enlighten Spicer about this.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And you think … Wilbur knew her?’

  ‘We have some information that may suggest that,’ I say carefully, recognizing Greg Spicer as the kind of man who would happily sell the story of his brother-in-law’s life to anyone who is interested in it. And pay for it.

  ‘That woman? Who was killed? ’ Joy’s eyes are big as saucers. ‘No. I’m sure he didn’t know her. He would have told me about it.’

  ‘Do you recognise the names of Denise Shaw? Or Trevor Bennett? Kenneth Poole? Arthur Bristow?’ I ask, but their faces are blank.

  Joy starts to cry and her husband seems annoyed with her attitude. I stare at Jeremy Torrington. His head has dropped to one side, resting on a pillow his daughter has gently pushed under his shoulders. His mouth is half open and some saliva drips on his chin. There is no point in asking him what time his son came home last Saturday night. Let alone if he knows who Wilbur was meeting today.

  ‘I would like to have a look in Wilbur’s bedroom. Does he have a computer?’

  ‘Are you taking his laptop? When will we have it back?’ Greg asks bluntly. ‘It isn’t like it’s an oldie, you see. Our Nick will be very happy with it.’

  ‘Greg! We haven’t even … It’s only happened a few hours ago!’

  ‘I know, but there is no point is there? Your brother won’t be using that laptop anymore. And I’m sure he’d be happy if we give it to Nick.’

  ‘I’m afraid our forensic team will need some time to examine it to see if there is anything on it that can lead us to his murderer.’

  The last word silences even Greg Spicer and he has the decency to look down at his fingers. I rise to my feet and Joy gazes at the empty mug she’s still holding in her hand.

  ‘Mrs Spicer, your father needs to be told.’

  ’Yes.’ She sniffs and blows her nose. ‘Perhaps it is for the best that he won’t really understand or remember when we tell him.’

  ‘But it is bloody annoying that we have to tell him the same thing time and time again,’ her husband says harshly.

  ‘It’s not as if you have to deal with him much, Greg,’ she retorts, wiping the side of her hand over her face. ‘And now that Wilbur is gone, I will have to deal with him all by myself because I get no help or support from you whatsoever!’

  20

  Curtis, my neighbour, has been nagging me ever since he spoke to Lauren. He told me that I am a coward and a fool, and that I should know better than to let a woman like Lauren go. He calls her a jewel, a little gem, a ‘one-in-a-lifetime-woman’, someone who can make me happy. She loves me, he is certain of that. The bitterest pill to swallow is the fact that I know that he is right. Perhaps not that she loves me, but he is right about the rest.

  I promised him I would contact her. I don’t know how he knows, but he is certain that I haven’t called her.

  This morning, I took Mr Cole’s prescription out of the drawer from my bedside table and put it in my wallet, securely folded. I have parked at Truro Crown Court and walk down to the city centre. My hand is in my pocket, holding the prescription as though a gust of wind might take it and blow it away like a dying leaf from an autumn tree.

  I look over my shoulder, scanning the streets to my right and to my left. It is highly unlikely that I will be spotted by someone I know, but I can’t bear the possibility. For that reason, I came to Truro to find a pharmacy where nobody knows me.

  ‘Mr Tregunna!’

  I freeze. I hear the voice as she enters my vision from a little alleyway between two shops in Pydar Street. I feel like a schoolboy who has just worked out the best way to buy condoms and gets caught by the head master.

  ‘Mr Tregunna! It is you!’ She is slightly out of breath, as if she’s been running to catch up with me.

  I stop and force a smile, crunching the prescription in my hand. ‘Miss Shaw.’

  I turn away from the pharmacy door. She can’t possibly know that I was about to get Viagra pills, but nonetheless I feel like I’ve been caught in some sort
of criminal act.

  ‘Do you always walk so fast?’ she asks. Her hair is pulled back from her face. Silver blue eye shadow matches the collar of a blouse that pops out from her coat.

  ‘It’s going to rain.

  She laughs, making me feel like a fool. ‘I didn’t think you are the kind of man who is afraid for a few raindrops.’

  ‘I didn’t see you.’ It sounds even worse.

  ‘You weren’t trying to escape me?’ she asks with a wink.

  I shrug. The cry of a child gives me an excuse not to answer that question. I turn my head and I see a young woman pushing a pram with an unhappy toddler in it. She stops, obstructing the pavement to a man who is partially visible under an umbrella, and she wipes melting chocolate off the child’s face. In her other hand, she has a plastic bag with chocolate Easter eggs, holding it up like a matador’s red rag to attract the attention of a raging bull. Not surprisingly, the child cries for more, stretching its arms out towards the bag. ‘Well, all right then, but this is really the last one, okay? I’ll have your tea ready in a minute as soon as we’re home.’

  ‘Are you working?’ Denise gestures vaguely over her shoulder in the direction of the city centre.

  I’m about to tell her that I just spent an hour on a hospital ward, sitting next to a bed in which young Becca Trewoon is vegetating, but I swallow and shake my head. I suspect she might think it is a ridiculous and weird thing to do. She won’t probably understand that I feel kind of guilty, or, more accurately, that I feel somehow connected to the young woman in the hospital bed. In a rather sad way, I have gotten used to thinking of Becca as a friend. I have told her about the previous case, when we were investigating the origin of several body parts scattered along the coast of Cornwall and the disappearance of two schoolgirls. I told her about my theories about that case and, listening to my own words, things started to make sense to me. With this new investigation, I’ve been doing more or less the same. I have told Becca everything I know about Alicia’s and Wilbur’s death and I have this weird feeling that, somehow, she will help me and guide me to the killer.

  ‘Are you alright?’ Denise Shaw pulls me away from my thoughts and I grin sheepishly at her. ‘Sorry, I was miles away.’

  ‘I was going to call you, but … now that you’re here …’ She stops with a vague gesture. ‘How can I help you, Miss Shaw?’

  ‘Denise, please, inspector.’

  ‘Okay, Denise. I’m Andy.’

  ‘Right.’ A smile trembles on her lips. They are cherry red. I wonder briefly if they also will taste like cherries.

  ‘Sorry, were you going to the pharmacy?’

  I shrug. ‘It can wait.’

  ‘I’m going in too. I have to collect my prescription.’ She steps beside me and pulls open the door. ‘And then … can I invite you for a coffee?

  A Costa Coffee just around the corner, opposite a Starbucks. Although her smile is genuinely friendly, she gives me no chance to refuse. ‘Why not?’

  Her smile becomes wider and for once I don’t compare her to Lauren. There is no comparison anyway. Lauren is younger, soft and gentle; this woman is mature, more hardened by life.

  ‘If you order a cappuccino for me, I will join you in a minute.’

  Somehow, I feel trapped in a situation I know I can’t handle. Nerves make me clumsy. I know I could tell her that I have just come out of the pharmacy, that I took in a prescription for … my neighbour … Mr Curtis ... that I’ll have to go back later to collect the pills. It would be so easy. It would also be easy to tell her that I am too busy investigating the murder of her best friend to have a coffee with her. Instead, I can only nod passively.

  ‘Uhm … do you want to go to the pharmacy first, Andy?’

  ‘It is not important.’

  She casts me a quick look, then nods. Women know some pharmacy purchases can be embarrassing. My ex-wife never asked me to buy sanitary towels or tampons for her. I can’t help thinking that Denise Shaw presumes that I was after condoms. Coloured, flavoured, with or without extra add-ons. I wish …

  ‘Okay. Costa? Alright, I won’t be long.’

  Before I can find an excuse to escape her, she has opened the door and enters the shop. I stare at her back, cursing inwardly because I can be so clumsy and inadequate with women sometimes.

  I order two cappuccinos and choose a table at the back as if I’m not sure if I want to be seen. She comes in with a big plastic bag dangling from each hand. Grinning, she places them under the table and wipes a strand of hair from her nose. ‘Weak bladder pads,’ she explains, without worrying that the couple at the table next to ours can hear her.

  ‘Not for yourself, I hope?’ I try to joke, but fail.

  ‘I probably wouldn’t have told you if it was for me,’ she admits, taking off her coat and draping it over the back of her chair. ‘They’re for my neighbour.’

  And I was getting Viagra pills … for my neighbour I think to myself and I can’t help a small smile, but at the same time I know that I can’t explain it to her.

  ‘Poor woman,’ she says. ‘I feel sorry for her. She doesn’t feel comfortable or confident anymore and so she hardly ever goes out.’

  ‘It can be very distressing,’ I nod, wondering whether I should tell her about my stoma bag. Maybe not. Or perhaps she already knows. For some reason, I get the impression that very little escapes her sharp eyes.

  ‘Hmm.’ She picks up her tea spoon and scoops out some of the froth layered with cocoa powder. ‘You are a remarkable man, Andy Tregunna.’

  ‘Why is that?’

  ‘Most men would be embarrassed by bags full of pee pads under their table.’

  ‘I’m not most men.’

  ‘That’s why I say you’re remarkable.’ She smiles and leans forward and it feels like I’m about to be attacked.

  ‘You said you were about to call me,’ I remind her. ‘About Alicia?’

  ‘Yes.’ She is taken aback, hiding her emotions behind a blank expression. ‘Yes, of course.’ She makes it sound as if she can’t think of any other reason why she would want to talk to me. Perhaps I’m being vain in thinking that she might be interested in me as a man, not as a policeman.

  ‘Have you remembered something, Mrs Shaw?’

  ‘Denise,’ she corrects me. She leans forward again, crosses her legs and puts one elbow on her knee, resting her chin in her hand. ‘I hope so. Do you remember that I told you that Ali went off with someone that night? She told me his name was Chris. Did I tell you that? Yes, I’m sure I did. But I didn’t think that she had mentioned his last name. That was wrong because I realise now that she did tell me. I’d simply forgotten it. I’m sorry, inspector, I don’t know how I could have forgotten it. Anyway, I hope I’m right because I’m not sure if the name I remember is the same Chris, but …’

  ‘Go on, please, Mrs … Denise.’

  ‘It was a while ago that Ali told me that she had met up with someone who she used to know years ago. Long before she was married to Trevor. He was an old schoolmate of hers. And I remember this clearly, because she told me a little anecdote about the boy.’

  She takes a sip from her cappuccino and carefully wipes the froth from her lips, leaving a smudge of cherry-red on the paper napkin.

  ‘There was something about the pupils having to do a little talk in front of the class about a character of their choice from a book,’ she continues slowly, as if she is reliving the scene. ‘This boy Chris’s last name was Eyre and he chose Jane Eyre as his subject. When his friends heard the romantic story, they rolled over with laughter. First of all, it wasn’t really a subject that appealed to his friends, as they had all chosen footballers or Formula-1 drivers, but one of them knew things about Chris’s family. ‘What, he said, are you going to do your talk about your mother?’ It appeared that this mother of Chris was called Jane Eyre. It wouldn’t probably have been so much of an issue, but Chris’s parents were just splitting up and he was rather emotional about the whole thing. He beat up the
other boy after school and was banned for three days because he wouldn’t apologise.’

  ‘Chris Eyre.’ I write the name on the back of a till receipt. ‘So he must be the same age as Alicia?’

  ‘I guess so.’

  ‘I don’t suppose you happen to know where he lives.’

  She shakes her head, taking a few more sips of coffee, drawing my attention to her lips again. ‘I’m sorry. I hoped this would be helpful to you and that you will catch Alicia’s murderer.’

  ‘Do you think it might be this old school friend?’

  She shrugs. ‘He seemed a nice guy, although he was a bit … he seemed to need to touch women, if you know what I mean. Some men do that. They flirt not only with their eyes, but also with their hands. Very subtle, so they can never be accused of sexual harassment, but all the same, it is there. Like touching your hips when they pass you in a crowd, or your arm or shoulder when they speak to you. You know what I mean.’

  I don’t, but I won’t tell her that.

  ‘I’m sure we’ll be able to find this son of Jane Eyre,’ I say flippantly, but her gaze remains serious. ‘Sorry, this is a serious matter, of course.’

  ‘I haven’t been thinking of anything else, to be honest,’ she says softly. ‘I mean, I can’t imagine that anyone would want to hurt Alicia, let alone kill her.’

  ‘If this Chris Eyre is a suspect, what do you think his motive may be?’

  ‘A motive? None, I’d say. I mean, he was a little bit possessive towards Alicia that night, but at the time I didn’t think anything of it. She was beautiful and a lot of men looked at her. Chris seemed smitten by her too, but … what can I say? If I don’t know the man, how can you ask me what he is capable of?’

  ‘Do you think there was more than just the previous friendship going on between them?’

  ‘Oh yes, definitely. It was obvious that he fancied her and I could tell it was mutual.’