COVER THE LIES: A TREGUNNA CORNISH CRIME NOVEL

by Carla Vermaat

  She was right about the kitchen. It looks like she only does the washing up when all the crockery, pots and pans are dirty. I fill the kettle and push the switch down, but it isn’t working. I try again, with no result. I wash two mugs under the tap. The water is tepid. A small round Quality Street tin holds a dozen tea bags, and an open packet of biscuits, half eaten, is tied up in a clear plastic bag.

  ‘Milk is in the fridge!’

  I open the fridge. It is almost empty and the light doesn’t come on.

  ‘Do you have a pay-as-you-go meter for the electricity?’ I ask, standing in the doorway and looking down at her. The baby lies in the crook of her arm, pressed against a small white breast, sucking contentedly. Her other arm is on the armrest, holding a mobile phone. She’s tapping away on the screen with remarkable speed.

  ‘Oh, I forgot. The top-up stick is in my bag.’ She nods towards her shoulder bag, which she dropped onto the floor as she came in. ‘Do you mind? The meter is in the porch.’

  ‘No problem.’

  Her bag is full of things that a young mother would need. A large red purse, a plastic make-up bag, tampons, wet-wipes and nappies for the baby, a multi-coloured spectacle case, a cheap pen with the logo of some builders company, a hairbrush and empty wrappers of chocolate bars. I am disappointed that there is no ID card.

  ‘The electricity stick is in the glasses case,’ she says helpfully.

  She tops the stick up with ten pounds, but as the meter was already on emergency. I wonder how long it will last her.

  The fridge hums when I return to the kitchen and I switch on the kettle and dry the mugs with a tea towel that is not surprisingly clean and dry considering the stack of unwashed dishes.

  When I return to the room with two mugs of tea and some biscuits, she has moved the boy to her other breast and stares into the distance.

  ‘The electricity won’t last very long,’ I warn her.

  ‘I know. Adam will come home later and he’ll bring some cash.’ There doesn’t seem to be a need to be secretive about her identity anymore.

  ‘Adam is …?’

  ‘My husband.’ She points at the shoe boxes by the TV cabinet. ‘Can you open that white box, please?’

  I pull the box from under the cabinet. It is old with damaged edges, but there is no speck of dust on the lid. ‘What am I looking for?’ I ask, putting the lid to one side and staring at a heap of photos.

  ‘A school photo of last year.’

  ‘Perhaps it would be better if you have a look yourself,’ I say, pushing a photo of a smiling woman sitting on a sunny beach under another one.

  ‘Maybe.’ She rummages in the box and retrieves a white envelope dated June last year on one corner. ‘This is the one.’

  She takes her mug and blows the steam away. ‘Those biscuits are stale,’ she grunts distractedly, nevertheless, she takes a bite of one. ‘So, inspector, tell me what you see.’

  I have opened the envelope and take out a school photo of a girl. She is about seven years old, grinning at the camera, her hair in two plaits that start beside her temples with several coloured hair clips arranged randomly. She is wearing a white blouse that seems to give her face a translucent shine.

  ‘But this is …’ I pause to correct myself. ‘No, it isn’t.’

  ‘It is a picture of Adam’s sister’s daughter. Yvonne. It was taken last year at school. She is now seven years old.’

  ‘But how …?’

  She grins. ‘That’s what struck me too, inspector. I noticed it immediately when I saw that photo in the newspaper.’

  I don’t have to ask her which photo she means. A special service was held for Alicia in the local church and as Kenneth Poole and Trevor Bennett came out afterwards, they had Briony between them, each holding her hand. The girl had been crying, but there was a glimmer of a smile on her face when reporters ran towards them, shouting their questions.

  ‘This is … extraordinary.’ Apart from an age gap of roughly two years, Briony Bennett and this girl Yvonne could well be twin sisters.

  29

  A tall and slender woman in her early thirties opens the door. A raven-black fringe almost obscures her green eyes, otherwise her hair is so short it looks like it has been shaven recently. On her neck, she has a tattoo of a black spider with red eyes sitting in a web. She lives on a new estate outside Newquay that was built under a government scheme to help young people get on the housing ladder. In the distance, the iconic shapes of the so-called clay mountains are barely visible in a fog that seems to get thicker by the minute.

  ‘Yes?’ She has a toddler on her hip, a little boy who looks sleepy and is quietly sucking a dummy.

  ‘I would like to talk to Susanna Keogh. Is that you?’

  ‘No.’ A faint smile. ‘She’s not home yet. I’m Billie Keogh, Susanna’s wife.’

  I am barely able to hide my surprise. Perhaps she is used to reactions like mine. Same-sex marriages seem to have become more common these days, but I can’t always get my head around it. I do believe that people have the right to make their own decisions and I have nothing against gay marriages, but it can still take me by surprise sometimes.

  ‘What time do you expect Susanna home?’

  She glances at a thick, black watch that is too big for her wrist. ‘She won’t be home before seven.

  I look at my watch. It is almost six. ‘It is really important that I speak to her, Mrs Keogh.’

  ‘Yeah, well, as I said, she won’t be home until seven.’ She frowns. ‘What is it about?’

  ‘Sorry, I am Detective Inspector Tregunna.’ I see her eyes widen in shock and I add quickly. ‘Her name has come up in connection with the investigation into the death of a young woman. I’m sure you’ve heard about it. Alicia Poole. She was found in a fishing lake last Monday.’

  ‘Oh.’ Shock is partly overtaken by surprise. She looks at the child as if to shield him from anything unpleasant. ‘I heard about it, yes, but what has that to do with Susanna?’

  ‘Probably nothing, but her name has come up in our investigation. And the way we work is that we not only look for evidence to identify and convict the murderer, but it is also important that we eliminate everyone else whose name we come across who may be connected to the murder.’

  ‘You can’t possibly think that Susanna …’

  ‘I didn’t say anything of the kind, Mrs Keogh. I am here to find out whether we can remove her name from our list.’

  ‘A list? Oh.’

  I smile at her, aware that she is curious. ‘Is it possible to wait for her here?’ I ask amiably.

  She steps back, more or less inviting me in. ‘Susanna works until half past five, but today, she’s going to collect our daughter from a friend’s house and takes her to ballet lessons.’ She hesitates. Reluctant, but her curiosity takes over. ‘Can I help you?’

  ‘Maybe you can.’ I follow her into a hallway. The largest of the white walls is covered with portraits of what could be ancient relatives. Coats and shoes seem are stored behind a door with a black chalkboard nailed to its surface with a short shopping list and some children’s drawings pinned onto it. It feels warm and welcoming.

  ‘It would be very helpful, Mrs Keogh.’

  ‘Alright then.’ She seems annoyed with herself that she has let me in, albeit as far as the hallway, but she doesn’t know how to get out of it. Besides, she did seem keen to learn more about the dead woman in the local media, and no doubt there has been a lot of speculation about the death on Facebook and Twitter.

  ‘Please come through, inspector.’

  Opening a door to an open-plan living room and kitchen, she dumps the little boy in a play pen and shoves some toys scattered on the floor to the side with her foot. ‘Please take a seat, inspector.’

  ‘Thank you. I have some photos here. I was hoping Susanna would be able to tell me who these people are. But you might also know.’

  ‘I hope I can help you.’ Her cheeks redden as she realises that she might be
useful to the investigation. Or perhaps she thinks that if she can help me if she can help me, I won’t need to wait for Susanna to come home.

  I take two photos from my pocket and place them next to each other on the coffee table.

  ‘How did you …?’ She stops, staring at the photo on the right. ‘That’s our Yvonne. I’m certain of it. Where did you get that photo?’

  I don’t reply. I wait for her to continue. ‘The other girl looks older. Like what Yvonne will be like in a couple of years. The … the likeness is amazing.’

  ‘That’s what I thought too,’ I say gently. ‘It may be a coincidence, but I don’t believe in coincidences. Do you?’

  ‘No.’ She shakes her head.

  ‘Do you know the other girl?’

  ‘No.’ Suddenly there is concern clouding her eyes and her mouth has tightened. ‘I’m not sure if Susanna can help you, inspector.’

  ‘What makes you say that?’

  She pulls the zipper of her navy blue Weird Fish cardigan up to her chin and pulls the collar up to under her lips. I get the impression her face is a few shades paler. ‘I’m afraid you can’t stay here after all, inspector.’

  ‘I need to wait for Susanna.’

  ‘No. I don’t think she’ll want to talk to you. She won’t be able to tell you anything anyway. I don’t know the name of the other girl and I’m sure Susanna doesn’t know either.’

  Her voice is raised and the little boy in the play pen looks up, frightened, lips trembling and eyes filling with tears, ready to start crying. Protectively, she picks him up and presses his face against the tattoo on her neck. The spider’s bright red eyes don’t seem to scare him.

  ‘Is he yours?’ I ask, merely to distract and relax her. ‘Or Susanna’s?’

  ‘Yes, he is mine,’ she snaps almost violently. ‘Mine and Susanna’s. You have no right …’

  ‘I’m not here to upset, Mrs Keogh,’ I say soothingly. ‘I’m just trying to establish who these girls in the photos are.’

  ‘I told you, didn’t I? I've never seen that other girl. I can’t help you. Yes, the young one is our Yvonne. Full name Yvonne Keogh, Susanna’s daughter, but I think you already know that.’

  I decide not to react to her accusing words. ‘When was Yvonne born?’

  ‘On the fourth of February. She has just turned seven.’ She takes a sharp intake of breath. ‘But that’s all I can tell you, inspector.’ She looks at me with despair in her eyes. Then, without warning, she bursts into tears. Seeing his mother in distress, the little boy also starts crying.

  ‘I didn’t mean to upset you,’ I say lamely. ‘Or the boy.’

  ‘Please go, inspector. Leave us alone. I can promise you, we have nothing to do with the death of that woman.’

  I shake my head. ‘I’m pretty sure you don’t but, nevertheless, I do need to know who the other girl is,’ I lie. ‘To me, it looks as if they are … closely related.’

  ‘But I’ve never seen her in my life!’

  ‘I was hoping Susanna has. That’s why I need to see her, so why don’t we wait until she comes home? Then this will soon be over.’ I don’t want to let this go. Whether it will turn out to be significant or not, I am very intrigued by this situation although I’m not sure if it is in any way related to the murder case at all. It feels like I’m chasing shadows and as soon as one fades, another one pops up. More frustratingly, whichever line of inquiry I follow, the more potential suspects seem to emerge. Further complicating the case.

  ‘But Susanna … I’m sure she has …’

  I shake my head, cutting her off almost rudely. Suddenly, I feel tired and I don’t want to have to go and come back later. ‘Let’s make ourselves a cup of tea, shall we? While we wait for … your wife?’

  She stares at me, uncertain. In her eyes, I have probably become a monster who is a threat to life and she doesn’t understand it. Which is probably all the more frightening. She lowers the little boy onto the floor and he claws to his toys, grabbing a red plastic fire engine and pressing a button on its roof. A blue light starts flashing and a tinny voice says: ‘Hello. Where is the fire? Let’s go to the fire.’ The voice repeats until the light stops flashing, and the boy presses the button again.

  ‘Stop that, Charlie!’ Billie snatches the toy from his fingers and without having to look she finds a little switch to turn the battery off.

  I see resentment in her muscles when she turns her back to me as she moves to the kitchen area, where she makes tea while she keeps an eye on the boy. He is examining the toy, wondering why the light and the sound aren’t working any more. I wonder how long it will take him to find the switch and realise his mother has removed the batteries. Children seem to work these things out at a very young age nowadays and as if on cue, Charlie pulls himself up to the couch and finds a hibernating iPad and pressing his little fingers on the empty screen, it comes to life.

  ‘How old is he?’ I ask, shocked to see that he is now tapping away and choose a cartoon film on YouTube.

  ‘Fifteen months.’

  ‘He can do more with that tablet than I can.’

  A small smile lights up her face. ‘He learns all that from Yvonne.’

  ‘Do you know Yvonne’s father?’ I ask gently, yet I hope she hears in my voice that I won’t take no for an answer.

  She shakes her head, concentrating on measuring out tealeaves into a China teapot and pouring hot water over it. ‘I don’t think …’

  ‘Is it Trevor Bennett?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Trevor Bennett.’

  ‘I’ve never heard of that name.’

  ‘He is the father of the other girl.’

  ‘Oh!’ Her voice trembles. ‘I thought you said you wanted to know who she is.’

  The boy looks up, his eyes wary, ready to start crying, but he finds another cartoon on the tablet and watches it totally absorbed, although probably not understanding a word of it.

  His mother puts the old-fashioned teapot under a tea cosy that has roses stitched on it. Vintage seems to have entered this household. ‘I really can’t help you, inspector,’ she says lamely, shaking her head as if she needs to be convinced herself.

  Then she picks up the boy, lowers herself on the couch and, undoing the zipper of her Weird Fish cardigan, lifts her shirt to reveal a swollen breast and a stain on a white vest underneath. As she presses him into the crook of her arm and he starts sucking her nipple, I realise that it is the second time this afternoon that I witness a young woman breast-feeding her child.

  ‘The tea will be ready in a couple of minutes,’ she says, suddenly calm.

  ‘I’ll find us some cups or mugs,’ I say, my voice hoarse.

  I look at her, sitting on the couch, her eyes still red, the black fringe on the bridge of her nose, but there is serenity on her face that makes me swallow suddenly.

  I think of Lauren and I know I want to see her again. I love her. I need her. Maybe it is not too late. And I definitely need to speak to the doctors in Treliske about this problem of mine. All I can think of now is imagining Lauren, breast-feeding our baby … surely it must be possible to sort this out, make me able to make love …

  ‘I guess it will be easy enough for you to find out about us,’ Billie says, as if she needs to fill the silence. ‘I met Susanna about five years ago,’ she continues, looking down at her child, who seems to have fallen asleep, his bottom lip stuck on her nipple. ‘At that time, she was still living with Tony, but their marriage was more or less over. They hadn’t slept together for a long time, she told me. I had no reason not to believe her, did I? I never asked about the details of their relationship and she didn't tell me much. Not then. She was going to get a divorce, she promised me, which was all I needed to know.’

  ‘So Yvonne is Tony’s daughter?’ I ask incredulously.

  She shakes her head fervently. ‘She got her divorce and we married three years ago. We were happy, until … some time ago, when Yvonne had an accident on her bike. Nothing seri
ous, fortunately, but it looked really bad in the beginning. We were so scared to lose her. But it all went well and Yvonne came home a week later. Susanna and I … our relationship had changed, though. Yvonne’s accident had made me realise that I wasn’t number one in Susanna’s life. That was Yvonne and I knew that would always be the case.’ She stops and sighs, offering a watery smile. ‘I know it sounds horrible, but I got jealous, really jealous. I even started to dislike Yvonne. I hated myself for it, but I couldn’t help it. I was jealous. I tried to hide it, but Susanna knew, she understood.’

  She looks up shyly, uncertain whether it would be better to wait for Susanna after all.

  ‘They were too young when they married. Susanna had her doubts, but she didn’t realise that she was a lesbian. She hated the physical side of their marriage, but she couldn’t understand why and she thought it was normal. She didn’t enjoy having sex with Tony and she told him honestly. Then Susanna thought their marriage could be saved by a baby, but Tony refused. Knowing she preferred women, he felt … so humiliated. He left her and Susanna lived with a woman for a while. It didn’t work. This particular woman was older, she had three children from two previous marriages and Susanna knew she would always be less important than the children.’ She smiles sadly. ‘That’s how she understood so well why I was struggling with my feelings for Yvonne. But then … she told me about Yvonne and … it all made sense, you know. We discussed every angle of it and then the decision was made.’ She looks down on her son, a tender smile on her lips. ‘We decided that the only way our marriage could survive was if I also had a child. It would make us equals, you understand that?’

  ‘Yes, but …’ I’m not sure where this is going. I am investigating a murder. I feel almost embarrassed listening to the heartache of a lesbian couple.

  ‘We discussed it endlessly and …’ She stops to gesture towards the teapot. ‘I think our brew is ready, inspector, would you …?’