COVER THE LIES: A TREGUNNA CORNISH CRIME NOVEL

by Carla Vermaat

  ‘Forensics hasn’t printed them, but I guess we can ask …’

  I pick up the phone and dial a mobile phone number scribbled on top of the first page.

  ‘Roger?’ Ollie asks, lifting his eyebrows disapprovingly.

  ‘Hmm.’

  The number is engaged. I’ve dealt with Roger Bamfield before and on those occasions, he always had his mobile switched off. Or at least, so it seemed as I never saw it on his desk or heard it ring. Bit it’s hard to believe that a guy like Roger would be comfortable without it.

  ‘I’d better go and see him later.’ I rise, glancing at Ollie who doesn’t look as though he intends to come with me. I guess Roger’s relaxed attitude towards the legal guidelines makes some colleagues a bit nervous, especially when we are gathering evidence for the prosecution.

  Roger’s way of working, and getting results, when his colleagues who follow the rules more strictly don’t, is exactly why I like him.

  25

  I see Josh Warren climbing out of his car opposite the Lobster Hatchery on Padstow’s South Quay. The old railway line, which ended at the Quay, closed in 1967 and was redeveloped into a 17-mile leisure trail. Originally built to transport sand for fertiliser, the railway later transported slate and china clay to ships moored in Padstow, as well as taking fresh fish upcountry. From an important commercial route, it is now a popular cycle and walk way.

  A young man with a black hooded sweater is placing bikes outside one of many bike hire shops, his jeans barely held up by his skinny hips. His eyes are locked on the area in front of his feet, oblivious to anything going on around him. The sky is pale blue, the sun breaking through a little, but it is still rather chilly with a northerly wind.

  Eddie Rowse emerges from the passenger seat of Josh’s car and makes his way to the quay where an empty lorry has just arrived to collect sand that has been dredged from the estuary. The lorry driver jumps out and greets Eddie with a pat on his shoulder, exchanging jokes with two other men who have been waiting for his arrival. Eddie beams at them, like one of the lads. They all laugh and grin, relaxed. I envy their companionship. I envy Eddie for his innocence.

  All of a sudden he looks up and, even from this distance, our eyes meet. For a second, he freezes, then, by way of greeting, he lifts a hand that doesn’t reach higher than his shoulder. The other three men follow his gaze and they stare at me with a hint of hostility. I turn away quickly to avoid any confrontation.

  Josh Warren has collected a rucksack from the backseat of his car and is fumbling for his keys in the pockets of his jeans.

  ‘Mr Warren, can we have another word?’

  ‘What?’ He looks over his shoulder, not wanting to be seen in my presence. ‘You mean, right now?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’m going to work.’ He gestures with his thumb over his shoulder, where a middle-aged woman is struggling to attach an A-frame with pictures of lobsters to a lamp post to prevent it from falling over by the wind. ‘I’ll have to start in ten minutes.’

  ‘It won’t take long.’

  He cocks his head to one side and sighs, accepting he can’t escape from me. His best option is to take me inside, where we won’t be seen by too many of his mates. He walks swiftly towards the Lobster Hatchery as if he’s trying to shake me off.

  ‘I doubt if there will be visitors this early,’ I say casually. ‘What exactly do you do at the hatchery?’

  ‘I look after the little ones. Lobsters. We breed them ourselves, you see.’ He casts me a sideways glance. ‘We work closely with the local fishermen. If they catch an egg-bearing lobster, they bring it over to us and we collect the eggs. We keep the little ones for about two years and then they’ll go back to where they belong.’ He pauses. Uncertain. The silence grows. He’s staring directly at me, his face stubborn. ‘Okay. I work. You talk.’

  ‘No. I ask the questions and you answer them.’

  He shrugs. He wants to have the last word. ‘I’m not sure if I can tell you anything new, inspector.’ He greets the woman who is now picking up some scattered chocolate wrappers, purple and gold, from the doorway, gleaming in the early sun, telling her that I am not a paying customer.

  I follow him in and he disappears into a small room, leaving the door ajar. He hangs his rucksack on a hook, takes off his shoes and puts on a pair of green boots, tying the laces of his shoes together and hanging them over the rucksack.

  ‘Were you aware that the car park at the lake is being used by some other people?’ I ask.

  He bends down to push his trousers into his boots. Shrugs with studied indifference. ‘It’s private property. There are signs, but obviously, we can’t stop people from parking there … unauthorized. We can’t be that vigilant, inspector. We are aware that people also come for a walk along the lake. It is a very peaceful area … well; it was peaceful until someone was murdered there.’

  ‘I mean at night, Mr Warren.’

  ‘At night?’ he asks, surprised. He looks at the floor and then a broomstick seems to need serious attention. ‘Uhm … what do you mean?’

  ‘You know perfectly well what I mean, Mr Warren but, for the time being, your little secret is safe with me.’

  ‘Secret?’

  ‘Mr Warren, we are investigating the murder of two people. The woman you found in the lake and a man we found on Bedruthan Steps beach earlier this week.’ I retrieve a photo from my breast pocket. ‘I believe you know this man, Mr Warren?’

  He stares at the photo, his face ashen. ‘Yes. He works at the petrol station in the village.’

  ‘Right. You …’

  ‘But I had nothing to do with his death! Or with that woman! It was …’

  ‘You went to the petrol station on Saturday evening. You filled your car with petrol and you bought two bottles of coke, a bag of crisps and a bar of chocolate.’

  His lower jaw drops. ‘How do you know?’

  ‘We’ve seen the images on the security cameras,’ I say as friendly as I can. ‘Why didn’t you tell us that you were there?’

  ‘You didn’t ask. You wanted to know about the woman. I didn’t think it was important that I got some petrol for my car.’

  ‘No, you are right, but I am interested in what you said to Wilbur Torrington.’

  His face turns from white to pink. ‘I … I can’t remember.’

  ‘Then let me help you, Mr Warren. I think you told Wilbur Torrington what would be going on at the lake later that night.’

  ‘What was going on?’

  ‘You are not stupid, Mr Warren. And neither am I. You knew about the meeting in the car park. You knew exactly what was going on.’

  ‘I … no. Well, yes. I knew about them … having sex.’

  ‘Is that why you went back there on Saturday night?’

  ‘I wasn’t … I was …’

  ‘As you were the one collecting the fishing fees, you were in charge of the money. I am aware that you aren’t the treasurer, but you told me yourself that you collect the money, you bank it, and you send copies of the transactions to the treasurer.’

  ‘What’s this got to do with the death of that woman? I’d never seen her in my life.’

  ‘I’m not talking about her at the moment, Mr Warren. I am asking you why you went to the car park at two o’clock on Sunday morning. You went there with Eddie Rowse on Monday morning to collect the fishing fees, so I would like to know what you were doing there early Sunday morning, and why you didn’t collect the fishing money then.’

  ‘I … I can’t tell you … I … was drunk.’

  ‘The way you were driving doesn’t suggest that you had been drinking, Mr Warren. We have images of you driving in the direction of the lake and back again half an hour later.’

  ‘I can’t … I don’t remember. Possibly … I went for a pee.’

  ‘Let me refresh your memory then. I think you went there because you killed Alicia Poole and you had to go back there to get rid of the body.’

  I wasn’t at all
sure about this but, when I see his eyes darken with undisguised fear, I know that my intuitive shot in the dark has to be close to the mark.

  ‘No! I had nothing to do with that!’ His voice trembles and he stares down; his expression suggesting a guilty conscience.

  ‘Then why were you there, Mr Warren?’ I ask gently.

  He stares at me. It is dawning on him that I have cornered him. If he doesn’t admit his true reasons for going to the Swan Lake that night, he’ll be charged with murder.

  ‘Uhm … I had forgotten something,’ he tries lamely.

  ‘What had you forgotten?’

  There is no easy way out for him and he knows it. But he still isn’t prepared to admit anything to me.

  ‘Shall I refresh your memory again, Mr Warren? I think you had an agreement with the organizer of the night time meeting and that you allowed him to use the car park with your permission, as it was private property. In case someone found out about it and went to the police, the people attending the meeting couldn’t be accused of trespassing.’

  ‘It’s not illegal,’ he says defiantly. ‘It has been done before and it’s not …’

  ‘I presume you intended to pay the money into the fishing society’s bank account and send the paying-in slip to the treasurer?’

  He shrugs by way of reply and stares at the plastic trays at his side. They are filled with running water and little round discs that each holds a tiny lobster of less than an inch long.

  ‘This one has just shred its skin,’ he says, as if he’s totally oblivious to what I said. Then he shrugs again. ‘Yes, of course I will pay it to our society,’ he says lamely. ‘I hope you are not here to accuse me of stealing.’

  ‘No Mr Warren, I’m just making sure that you are telling me the truth. Why did you leave the money from the fishing competition behind? Why didn’t you take that as well?’

  ‘I knew there would be more people coming on Sunday. It would have seemed suspicious if I’d gone twice. Even Eddie would have found it weird. And he never bothers about anything really.’

  A dead body in water starts to sink as the air in the lungs is replaced by water. After a while, bacteria in the tissue, gut and chest captivity form gasses and the body floats to the surface. Depending on several circumstances this can take a few days to several weeks. In this case, it took one day and one of the forensic examiners explained that Alicia’s body came towards the surface so quickly because of an upward current in the water.

  ‘Mr Warren, I am not here to accuse you of stealing from your society. All I’m interested in is what you saw in the car park that night.’

  ‘Uhm … I found the keys that I gave you earlier.’

  Whether it’s relevant what time he found Alicia Poole’s keys, I can’t fathom, so for the time being, I let it go.

  ‘Mr Warren, was there a white van parked there when you collected the money at two o’clock on Sunday morning?’

  ‘There was.’ He nods hesitantly.

  ‘Did you know whose van it was?’

  ‘It was Art’s. He is a member. All our members get a discount when we buy our gear and stuff from him.’

  ‘Arthur Bristow?’

  ‘Yes.’ Nothing seems to surprise him any more.

  ‘Did you speak to him?’

  ‘No, I didn’t see him. The van was dark and I … assumed that he was asleep.’

  ‘So you were aware that he uses the car park?’

  ‘Uhm … yes. ‘He stares at me incredulously. ‘How do you know all this?’

  I shrug, suppressing a small smile. ‘That’s all, Mr Warren. Thank you for your help.’

  ‘Okay. I admit that the people at that meeting were charged a small donation to our society for the use of the car park. But Art certainly doesn’t have to pay, inspector.’ He stares at me, licking his lips several times. If he thought by begging me I would keep quiet about his little business on the side, he would.

  He stares at his feet. Lamely. Defeated. ‘It’s just that our treasurer doesn’t want all the hassle. Otherwise the money would go straight to him, obviously.’

  ‘Obviously.’

  ‘Mr Tregunna, inspector … I am not a thief, inspector. Honestly.’

  ‘Mr Warren. I was just interested to know if you saw anything suspicious that night.’

  He doesn’t appear to hear me. ‘Am I a suspect now? Because I was there?’

  ‘We certainly won’t rule you out, Mr Warren.’

  26

  Roger Bamfield has half a dozen mobiles on the desk in front of him. He chooses one. Punches in a number, frowning in concentration as he stares at the screen.

  In his mid-twenties, he is the stereotypical IT nerd. Dressed in baggy faded black jeans and worn out trainers with odd laces. I have never seen him wearing anything other than black T-shirts with a Goth prints on the front. He once told me that the company he ordered a T-shirt from, had sent a box of 48 instead of the single one he had paid for and before he was able to return them, the company appeared to have stopped trading. To me, the story makes sense, more or less, as any company doing that is doomed to go down.

  His dark blond hair is long and unruly; according to Penrose, someone said jokingly that he won’t have a haircut until he finds a hairdresser who can do it online. Tall and skeletally thin, it always amazes me that he never puts on weight, as he seems to spend all his time slumped in a chair behind his desk, eating constantly while working on one keyboard with three large computer screens lined up on his desk. Claims that he spends a lot of time playing games are apparently ignored as it is also suggested that he can manipulate the rules to the benefit of himself and his colleagues. Penrose has no doubt that he would have been arrested years ago if he wasn’t under Guthrie’s wing. I find it hard to believe that a high-ranked policeman like DCI Guthrie would allow Roger to stay if there was the slightest possibility that he would jeopardise the reputation of the police force. Which hasn’t happened to date.

  As one of the admin staff recently brought into the force to relieve police officers from administrative tasks, Roger works part-time for us and I suppose Guthrie is smart enough to claim that anything dubious Roger may be doing, he is doing so in his own time.

  Pushing the mobile phones to one side, he acknowledges my appearance with a crooked grin. Meanwhile, he is clicking on a mouse - which is actually shaped as a mouse, with two tiny pink ears and blinking red lights as eyes. A yellow paper daffodil, courtesy of the Marie Curie charity, is clipped on its tail.

  ‘I have emailed you the stuff from Alicia.’ He sounds as if she was a good friend of his. I guess you get that feeling when you rummage through someone’s computer and got to know a lot about them.

  ‘Yes, thanks for that, but I need …’

  He shrugs by way of apology. ‘Maloney only wanted the emails from her closest friends and relatives.’

  I nod. Maloney is following a line of enquiry that is based on the fact that most murders are committed by family members or close friends. Money and greed, lust and jealousy are the main motives.

  Without taking his eyes from his three screens, Rogers’s right hand travels to a half-open drawer and finds an open packet of sugar coated chocolate peanuts. Crunching his way through a handful of them, he stretches his legs and pulls up another office chair for me.

  ‘Sit down, Andy. What can I do for you?’

  ‘I would like to know who “The Godfather” is.’

  This takes his eyes off the screens, attracting a second of his attention. Then he is quiet for a moment, and goes straight back to his keyboard to google the word.

  ‘Marlon Brando.’

  ‘Marlon …’ I stop, annoyed with myself. ‘I have seen the film, thanks, but I mean the person who sent several emails to Alicia Poole and called himself Godfather.’

  He grins, casting me a quick, sideways glance. ‘Yep. I’ve seen those. Nothing important.’

  ‘Still I would like to see them.’

  We have an awkward relationshi
p. He always makes me feel uncomfortable as if he finds my requests and questions clear proof of my stupidity. The result is that I don’t really know how to approach him to get what I want.

  He shrugs. ‘Of course. No worries.’

  He moves his mouse, red eyes flickering, so fast that it’s amazing that the daffodil is still in place on the mouse’s tail. Then he sighs and I watch him moving windows, text and images from one screen to another. I have seen him doing that before and was silly enough to ask him how he did it. There was pity in his eyes when he looked at me. And he said nothing.

  Roger may be working for the police, but there is one big problem; he is not a forensic computer analyst interested in the investigations. He doesn’t think about any possible links between cases, comparing modi operandi, motives of people involved. He doesn’t look for any idiosyncrasies or missing links. His interest and expertise focus on the technology, accessing and retrieving deleted, damaged or encrypted data. He once warned me not to take any computer device to a top without first completely destroying the hard drive. I didn’t really believe him until I read a paperback by a crime writer in which someone was blackmailed shortly after he’d put his discarded desktop computer in a dustbin. I gave Roger the book and asked him afterwards what he thought about it. He shrugged and replied that there was an element of truth to the plot, although he thought the actions of the victim were credible, someone being blackmailed would have gone have gone to the police straight away,’ he said.

  ‘Then there wouldn’t have been much of a story.’

  He grinned. ‘Good point, Tregunna, good point. But be warned; don’t be careless with your electronic devices.’

  ‘I promise to bring them to you when I want to get rid of them.’

  At which point he grinned, shook his head at my stupidity and said I’d better not do that either, as I shouldn’t trust anyone. Subsequently, my admiration for him increased, but it had probably the opposite effect on his opinion of me.

  ‘I only printed the emails from the people on the list Maloney gave me,’ he says, rather apologetically, yet shrugging with indifference.