‘How do you mean? Which woman?’
She lifts one shoulder. ‘She was mentioned in the papers earlier this week. The woman who was found in the lake.’ She sips her tea, seemingly unaware that it is too hot.
‘What makes you think that there is a connection between the two, Mrs Hampton?’
She shakes her head as if she can’t believe how ignorant I am. ‘Because of Saturday night, of course.’
I lean backwards, feeling like I have fallen asleep with the television on and wake up having missed the most important part of a thriller. ‘Perhaps you can tell me what happened on Saturday night.’
She clears her throat. Her tears have dried and she doesn’t need to blow her nose so ferociously any more. ‘I was just about to go to sleep when I heard someone at the door. It was late and I didn’t want to get up, but he kept knocking and ringing and calling me. I recognized his voice and let him in. Wilbur. He was in a terrible state. His clothes were dirty and wet and he had a wild look in his eyes. I’d never seen him so upset before. He stumbled in, almost tripping over the threshold, and he started to cry as soon as I closed the door behind him. I made him a cup of camomile tea to calm him down a bit. As I said, I was just about to go to sleep. I had been reading in bed and I didn’t … I wasn’t properly dressed. I left him in the kitchen to put something else on … in case he got some ideas, you know, but he wanted me to read the tarot cards for him. I thought it was rather an odd time of day to do that, but he said it would help him because he didn’t know what to do. He might be in serious trouble, he said. I asked him what was wrong but he was only interested in the cards and we went into the room that I use for my regular customers.’ She smiles thoughtfully. ‘I have decorated the room to satisfy the expectations of my clients, subdued and calming, and I always have some incense sticks on the go to create a bit of an atmosphere. I knew that Wilbur always liked being in that room. It helped him to relax when he was upset about something and …’
I hold up my hands to interrupt her. ‘What do you mean? Was he normally upset when he came to you?’
‘Most times, yes. Or just frustrated. He was not very happy with his life. He was lonely and depressed. He couldn’t wait to leave his parental home because he couldn’t deal with the situation with his father.’ She blinks. ‘I believe his father has Alzheimer’s.’
I nod. I can understand the frustration. ‘Did he have a girlfriend that you knew of?’
‘No, I don't think he did, although he was trying to find one all the time. He told me that he was on several dating sites and he was chatting to a lot of women but he never seemed to find the right one. Sometimes he asked me for advice. Some of those women were using him, ripping him off for his money or taking the Mickey. It was really sad sometimes, but he wouldn’t listen to me when I tried to help him and warn him to leave certain types of women alone. They only added to his disappointments.’
‘Did you get the impression that he had a date that night?’
‘I’m not sure,’ she replies, hesitating. ‘It could be, but he didn’t tell me.’
‘Okay. So, going back to that night, you read him the cards and then what?’
She looks anxious. ‘To be frank, I wasn’t honest with him. He picked cards and I knew that the first one was not right for him. If I told him the truth, he would only get more upset. I could see that he was worried about something and I sensed that he wanted my reassurance more than anything else. He needed help and I kind of bent the truth about the cards to help him relax. But he saw the last card and he knew it was a bad one as soon as he saw it. He knew what it meant. Bad news, he said. He then started to cry again and told me what happened before he came to me. It was an extraordinary story and at first I didn’t believe him. I thought he was upset and confused and that he was mixing things up. I thought, he might have had a few drinks, but he said no when I asked him and, in fairness, I didn’t smell any alcohol on him. He said he had been working that evening until eleven and he would never drink during his shift, or when he knew he’d have to drive home.’
She pauses, deep in thought, reliving the last moments she saw Torrington alive, perhaps regretting something she had said or done, or not doing something which could have prevented his death.
‘Go on, please, Mrs Hampton,’ I say encouragingly.
She drinks her tea. ‘He was working at the petrol station when he had a customer he knew who told him that something was going to happen at the car park at Swan Lake. Wilbur knew that it was the rule of the fishing society that they would not allow fishing in the dark. But the other guy laughed and he asked Wilbur if he had ever heard of dogging. Wilbur had never heard about it and the guy explained it to him. It was towards closing time for the petrol station and Wilbur was about to go home. But then he decided to drive past the lake and see what was going on. Clearly, although he didn’t say so, I suspect that he thought there might be a chance for him to have sex with one of the women. When he drove past the car park, he said, there were several cars parked in a circle with their headlights on. Wilbur realised that he wouldn’t be able to join in because he was not a member of the group, so he decided to park his car further up the road and he walked back through the fields. He approached the car park from the other side to the coast road and he saw that there were several couples having sex in the cars or on the bonnets of cars. He hid in the dark and watched and I suppose he got excited and … you know … but then he heard something in the bushes behind him and he was scared that he would be seen as a peeping Tom. He ran away. By that time, several of the cars were already leaving the car park. He thought it would be quicker to go back across the fields to where he’d parked his own car, but he found it easier to follow the headlights out of the car park. Although there was some moonlight, he couldn't really see where he was going. Then suddenly he fell over and he landed on something he described as soft and white.’
Mrs Hampton pauses, an expression of concern on her face. ‘I don't think he realized immediately what it was exactly. He heard something behind him and he was terrified. He staggered to his feet and he saw a man dressed in dark clothes. He then realized that he had fallen on top of a naked woman and he thought that the woman was about to have sex with the man, who seemed to be furious by the disruption. Wilbur panicked and as he stumbled to his feet, he lost his balance and he fell against the side of a van. He staggered off as fast as he could and when he arrived at his own car, he noticed that his hands and his shirt were covered in blood. It occurred to him then that the woman was hurt so he drove back to see if she needed help, but the car park was deserted and he couldn’t find the woman where he thought she had been lying. He thought of going to the police, but he was certain that they wouldn’t believe him. He was in such a state and he didn’t know what to do, so he decided to come to me for help.’
‘He was covered in blood?’
‘Well, it looked worse than it was. His hands were dirty and there was a stain on the front of his shirt, but that was all.’
‘What happened to his shirt?’
‘He took it off and I gave him an old one of my ex-husband’s. I put the shirt in a bucket of cold water to soak, but I couldn’t get rid of the stain, so I chucked it in the bin.’
‘And the bin men have already collected it?’
‘I’m afraid so, inspector. They come on Thursdays.’
’Did he come back to see you after that Saturday night?’
‘Oh yes. He came almost every day, especially when he heard about the woman found dead at the lake. He hadn’t got much of a look at her and he hadn’t recognized her from the pictures in the newspapers but he knew it must've been her. He thought that there would be evidence left on her and the van implicating him and he was scared that he could be in trouble and nobody would believe him.’
This, undoubtedly, would have been the case, I think, not saying so out loud. She wipes a single tear from the corner of her eye. ‘That’s why he didn’t want to go to the police, inspector. I
wish now that he had, because then, maybe, he would still be alive. The man he saw that night must have been the woman's murderer and he was scared that his life was in danger. Sadly, that turned out to be true.’
‘This is what he told you?’
‘Once I’d read his cards, yes. As I said, that Saturday night, I lied to him a bit about the cards and he seemed calmer when he’d told me everything. But once we knew about the dead woman I wish that I had done more to convince him that he should go to the police. I could have saved his life.’ She is quiet for a long time. ‘I came to you today to tell you what he told me and what I know because I truly believe that his death wasn’t an accident like they say in the papers. I want the police to find out what happened to him rather than putting it down as an accident.’
‘You have been very helpful,’ I say gently. ‘Can you remember how he described the man? What he looked like, what his impression of him was? Anything that can help us find this man?’
‘He didn’t say anything that could be helpful to you,’ she says slowly. ‘All he said was that he had seen the man before and guessed it must have been a customer at the petrol station. That would explain his fear, I thought, in case the man saw him working at the petrol station and recognised him. He’d be signing his own death certificate.’
I shake my head. ‘That sounds rather dramatic, Mrs Hampton. Let's not assume anything at this stage. We’d better concentrate on the facts.’ I smile as reassuringly as I can, knowing that she may well be right that Torrington’s death could have been prevented.
24
‘What is this?’ Guthrie is standing in the middle of the reception area, holding up a paper, his face the colour of a ripe tomato. Wisely, the desk officer ducks behind a computer screen, making herself invisible from the DCI’s rage. Unfortunately, I enter behind Maloney and, once I am in, there is no escape. Guthrie’s eyes skim over Maloney, who is a master of evasion and, consequently, they rest on me.
‘Tregunna! I demand an explanation!’
I stare at the newspaper, but it is partly folded in his shaking hand and I can’t read the headlines, or anything that has caused his fury. In fairness to Maloney, he pauses to ask the only relevant question. ‘What’s wrong?’
Guthrie is so angry that he says each word very loud and slowly. ‘What’s wrong? This. Is. What’s. Wrong!’ He holds up the newspaper and we can see the headline: ‘Clairvoyant to help police solve murder case.’
I swallow. Linda Hampton. She didn’t strike me as someone who would inform the press, but it hadn’t occurred to me to ask her to keep quiet about it either.
‘Who authorized this?’ He looks from me to Maloney and back again. I feel like a schoolboy caught stealing a pencil.
‘We didn’t authorize anything, sir,’ Maloney says, at the same time gazing at me. Which he shouldn’t have done as, immediately, Guthrie is suspicious and he senses that we are in this deceit together.
‘Tregunna? Did you speak to that woman?’
‘Yes sir, I did, because she is an important …’
‘I don’t need you to tell me how important she is, Tregunna. I just need to know how this article appeared in the paper.’
The statement of clairvoyant “Lyndha”, real name Linda Hampton, was initially received with mock and sniggering laughter, but then the significance dawned on every officer involved. Linda Hampton’s story confirms that Wilbur Torrington had indeed been in contact with the white van, which explains how his fingerprints in blood got there in the first place.
The continued silence in the room becomes uncomfortable.
‘She came forward as a witness,’ I explain. ‘Wilbur Torrington went to see her on Saturday night because he stumbled over Alicia Poole not knowing then that she was dead but, when he drove home, he realised he had blood on his hands and clothes. He panicked and went to see Linda Hampton, who happens to call herself a clairvoyant, but she was also friends with Wilbur. She promised him not to tell anyone about what happened, but, when she heard that he was dead, she came to see us.’ I turn towards the desk officer. ‘Annie … can confirm that.’
‘Anita.’ She looks up from behind her computer screen and smiles coldly. ‘Yes sir, that is right. I knew DI Maloney was very busy but Tregunna was available.’
How easy it is to play with words and give out a completely different impression. I catch the look in her eyes and sigh inwardly. The war between us is still going on, albeit under the surface.
‘So this wasn’t you who leaked this to the press, Tregunna?’
I stare at him, almost wishing I had. ‘No sir.’
Guthrie is only half convinced, but as the wind has been taken out of his sails, he doesn’t know how to go on.
‘We’ll have a briefing in half an hour,’ Maloney says helpfully, though I’m not sure if he is supporting me or the DCI.
‘Okay.’ Guthrie’s face is already returning to its normal colour. ‘I will deal with the press personally.’ He makes it sound as if he sees it as a chore, but in reality, I suspect that he relishes it. ‘Perhaps we can turn this to our advantage.’
One can always hope, I think, saying nothing.
In the incident room, the rapid tapping of fingers on keyboards of a couple of well-trained admin officers is louder than the voice of DS Ollie Reed speaking on the phone. He waves as he spots me, trying not to involve Maloney, and pointing at his desk. I see a scattered pile of newspapers. The pages are all open at the same story. ‘Police need help of clairvoyant to solve murder of wife of Cornish businessman.’
Had Guthrie seen this particular headline, he would have been even angrier. I slump into a chair and, as I wait for Ollie to finish his conversation, I read quickly through the stories. One newspaper has used a photo showing the vague outline of a woman, her hands folded around a crystal ball. A second photo shows me getting out of my car, the bulge under my shirt clearly visible and recognisable even to those who don’t know what a stoma bag looks like. I can’t find the name of the photographer under the photo, which may be just as well.
Finishing his call, Ollie picks up several printed sheets, stapled together in one corner.
‘This has just come in,’ he says in a low voice, as if he’s apologising for the fact that he is supplying me with information. ‘These are the results of what was found on Alicia Poole’s iPad. I thought you might like to see it, before …’ He doesn’t finish his sentence, letting it hang in the air.
‘Didn’t she have a computer or laptop?’
‘There wasn’t a computer in her home and we’ve only found the daughter’s laptop. According to Mr Poole, Alicia stopped using a computer when she got an iPad. If necessary, he would bring his laptop home, but usually she would email documents to his office if she wanted something printed.’
‘Modern times, Ollie.’
‘I suppose,’ he replies, wondering if I’m half joking or serious.
‘Let’s go though this, then, Ollie,’ I say, staring at the first sheet. Someone has scribbled undecipherable comments in the margins and put asterisks and arrows connecting sections of text, and highlighted some of the names and dates with yellow marker pen.
There are printouts of Alicia’s emails from the week before her death, filtered out from all the spam, newsletters, advertisements and notifications from social media sites. She exchanged several emails each day with her friend Denise, and occasionally commenting on posts they had shared. From what I can see, the exchanges seem innocent enough, rather boring in fact, with comments on fashion or people they both knew, and some short videos, most of which involve animals doing the most extraordinary exercises, and a lot of emoticons to express their feelings.
The get-together on Saturday seems to have been arranged a while ago, as there is no other reference other than the occasional ‘see you on Sat’ and unanswered questions like: ‘Where shall we go?’ Even in her last message on Friday evening, Alicia was casual about what time they would meet as she was unsure about the time she woul
d be ready, depending on when Trevor picked up Briony and Ken left to play. Everything seemed to be normal up at that point.
It starts to get more interesting on Sunday, when Denise sent her friend several emails. The first was just one question: ‘How did it go?’
Then, as there was no reply, which must have been unusual and made Denise curious at first and then probably annoyed. From what we can read between the lines, the girls did go their separate ways on Saturday evening, which confirms what Denise already told me, that Alicia left with a man who she introduced to Denise as Chris.
On Sunday, before it was known that Alicia Poole was dead, Denise’s messages prove that she didn’t know what had happened to her friend. Unless she planned and staged the murder to perfection. Which, to me, is almost impossible. Even the best laid plans can go wrong. A tiny incident, a split second, can change everything. Like the hit-and-run case of last week. The father stopped briefly to tie his shoe laces, missing being hit by the speeding car by a few inches, whereas his daughter, who had walked only one single step forward, got the full blow. In the unlikely event that the driver had intended to drive into them both, he couldn’t have predicted that the father would bend down at the very last moment, or that the girl would move one more step before she realised that her father had stopped.
Amongst all the emails, there are some to and from Alicia that suddenly catch my attention. There is no name, only the fact that the other person called himself ‘godfather’. There are four emails from this godfather, but Alicia only responded to the second one. Unfortunately, those emails have not been printed out.
‘Isn’t it odd to call yourself godfather?’ I say thoughtfully.
Ollie shrugs. ‘Why? My mother used to have a godfather and she was quite close to him, especially after her own father died.’
‘Did he call himself ‘godfather’?’
‘She always called him that.’
‘I want to see the emails, Ollie.’
COVER THE LIES: A TREGUNNA CORNISH CRIME NOVEL Page 18