On the basis that we are both victims of attempted murder, I manage to remain at Bennett’s side until Maloney has arranged for someone to keep an eye on him. He seems only half convinced that Bennett is a victim rather than a suspect and he’s quite happy that I can stay with him in case Bennett disappears again.
A Junior Doctor playing with the stethoscope hanging around his neck and a range of pens in the breast pocket of his white coat comes in. His name tag says he is Callum Wyatt and he asks the same questions the paramedic had already asked us. Within minutes he disappears behind the grey cotton curtain, he issues his instructions to a nurse and he’s gone without examining me. The nurse relieves Bennett of enough blood to fill a dozen test tubes for examination to determine how to proceed with his treatment. Then she looks at me quizzically.
‘Have you been looked at by the doctor?’
‘No, but I’m fine.’
‘The paramedics think you might have concussion.’
‘I’m fine.’
She nods, scribbling Bennett’s name on small labels and sticks them on the tubes. ‘I’ll get the doctor to have a look at your head. Better make sure most of the damage is on the outside.’
Her voice leaves no room for argument.
‘I’m fine,’ I repeat, whilst at the same time, like a child, trying to cover the lump on my head with my hand. It makes her smile and she tells me, for my own good, not to move until someone has examined me.
The Junior Doctor returns with a deep frown, looking at me as though I’m not the first obstinate patient who has tried to avoid him. He checks my reflexes, looks into my eyes with a bright penlight, mumbles inaudibly and writes his diagnosis on a blank form. He confirms that it doesn’t look as if I have a serious injury, but I need to be aware of certain symptoms and come back immediately if I develop any of them, As soon as I get the chance, I let one of the nurses know that I need a fresh stoma bag. She’s very young and very shy. She blushes and looks at me as though I’m taking the Mickey or perhaps I have a serious head injury after all. When I lift my stained shirt, she looks even more embarrassed. Earlier, I punched a small hole in the blown up bag to release the air, but the smell is still disgusting. She admits that she’s never seen one before and doesn’t know what to do and, I sense her relief when I tell her that I’d rather deal with it myself as long as she can provide me with what I need.
The soles of her shoes squeak on the laminate floor and she’s gone.
Our voices have woken up Bennett. For a moment, his eyelids flutter and stares at me. I can see his nostrils widen, but he is too drowsy to say very much.
‘Where is …?’ he starts, fear building up in his eyes.
‘Everything is alright now,’ I say quickly. ‘You are in hospital.’
‘Where is … Collins?’
I don’t yet know where Collins is but I tell Trevor I expect he’s in police custody by now.
‘Oh.’
Half satisfied, he slips back into semi-consciousness, but this time I won’t let him. I think of Marcie Holt, who is also somewhere in this hospital, still in shock from the ordeal. Her condition is stable, but she is under close surveillance. I can’t wait for Trevor to wake up properly. There are so many questions I need to ask him to clarify the half-broken chain of events in my mind. His condition is also stable and one of the doctors has reassured me that he’ll probably be released from hospital by the end of the day, once the drugs Collins had given him have worn off and they are sure there are no signs of other injuries.
‘Trevor! You need to help me.’
I recall the moments after I freed myself with Marcie’s nail clippers and went into Collins’s flat, not knowing what to expect there. Marcie had been telling the truth. To my relief, Collins was gone. However, I found Marcie sitting with her back pressed against to the headboard of their bed, shivering and shaking under the duvet, eyes wide open with horror and fear. Amazingly, her first words were: ‘I don’t want him caught.’
‘He is a murderer, Marcie.’
‘No! I don’t believe that!’
I didn’t think Collins would come back for her, but I bolted the front door and we sat together and waited until help arrived. Like warriors in a computer game, heavily armed police officers spilled into the house wearing bullet-proof vests and helmets, following orders they received in their earpieces. I don’t know what they expected, but, fully armed and fired up, they found in one flat a woman in shock, a tired and dirty colleague emanating an awful smell, and, in the other flat, a half sedated Trevor Bennett snoring in a bedroom.
In the turmoil, Marcie Holt managed to whisper: ‘He is a good man. He’s a godfather.’
She was then taken care of by the paramedics and, while they put her in an ambulance, I received a bollocking from Maloney about being stubborn, selfish and foolish. I told him humbly that he was right after which he softened a bit and let me go back to the other flat to stay with Trevor.
‘Trevor, you must help me.’ I put my hand on his shoulder and almost shake him. ‘Is Collins the godfather?’
He opens his eyes, possibly checking if we’re alone. ‘Briony … He is mad.’ His eyes widen as something dawns on him. ‘He hasn’t taken Briony, has he?’
‘Why would he do that?’ I freeze. Why didn’t I think of that possibility? Why didn’t I take the necessary precautions?
‘Briony is … she is … Collins is mad … dangerous.’ A tear escapes from between his eyelashes and his voice drops off to an inaudible mumble.
‘Trevor, stay awake please. Do you know Suzanne Keogh?’
He opens his eyes and blinks. His pupils are too big to focus clearly. ‘Who?’
‘Susanna Keogh. Her daughter looks exactly like Briony.’
‘No … I don’t know … Oh. Then … he is also …’ His eyelids are getting heavy. ‘I can’t tell you … Sorry.’
Before I can press on with more questions, his wife arrives. She is accompanied by her brother and her two children. They are pale and timid, the horror of the events still etched in their eyes. She shakes my hand, thanking me, but at the same time I see something in her eyes that tells me her real thoughts: that Trevor wouldn’t have been kidnapped if the police had done their job in the first place. I leave them hugging and sniffing and crying, mumbling words of encouragement and reassurance that the ordeal is over.
When Penrose emerges from the lift, she avoids my eyes and says curtly, ‘Home?’
‘No.’ I shake my head. ‘What’s the latest news about Collins?’
She stares at me, debating inwardly whether to tell me that it is none of my business since I made such a mess of the investigation. ‘He is currently being escorted to the police station. They picked him up in Plymouth when he tried to board the ferry to Roscoff.’
‘Let’s go then.’
‘Where?’
‘To the station. I need to speak to him.’
‘Maloney won’t let you.’ She looks at my face. She doesn’t even bother arguing with me any more. ‘Wouldn’t it be wiser to take you home?’
‘No.’
Her face softens. ‘You look tired.’
‘I’m okay.’
I follow her to her battered little car and fall immediately asleep, waking up when we arrive at the car park behind my home. I wipe a dribble off my chin, running my tongue over my dry lips. Thirsty and hungry.
‘You were snoring.’ I hear a glimpse of humour in her tone.
‘This isn’t the police station.’
‘I know.’ She looks at my shirt and I follow her gaze. I have changed my stoma bag but I’m still wearing my stained and smelly shirt.
She smiles faintly. ‘I thought you could do with a quick wash and change and then I’ll take you to the station. Promise.’
She follows me up to my flat as if she’s been instructed not to let me out of her sight. She inspects my fridge and finds a packet of cherry tomatoes, courtesy of my mother. She pops one tomato in her mouth, her lips pressed together
not to spill the juice.
‘Guthrie’s in limbo,’ she says, still chewing. ‘He doesn’t know if you deserve a medal or the sack.’
I shrug and go to the bathroom. I wash my face and run my hands through my hair. There is a lump on the side of my head, but the nurse at A&E has cleaned it and sprayed some plastic plaster onto it to prevent it from bleeding. I fill a glass of water and swallow some painkillers. I change my stoma bag again, this time replacing the one from the hospital with one that I find more comfortable. With Penrose’s last words in mind, I guess I am now delaying going to the station.
I put on a clean shirt and dump the dirty one in a plastic bag in the bin. Although I use a lot more deodorant spray than I normally do, I’m still not convinced that the smell has gone completely.
‘Ready?’
Penrose jumps to her feet, sheepishly putting the punnet with the remaining cherry tomatoes on the table.
I nod, but my phone vibrates in my pocket. It’s Maureen Bennett, her voice full of resentment. ‘Trevor says he wants to speak to you.’
‘Now?’
‘Yes. They’re keeping him in the hospital overnight.’
‘Is he alright?’
‘’He says you asked him about a woman. Susanna?’ I hear the uncertainty, the concern in her voice. She is scared that she might find out that her marriage is on shaky ground and her whole life is about to unravel.
‘That is right,’ I say gently. ‘Susanna Keogh. I’m sorry, Mrs Bennett, but I can’t talk about the investigation right now.’
We disconnect and I make a mental note to tell Trevor to talk to his wife and tell her the truth.
‘Change of plans.’ I grin at Penrose, but she looks back at me blankly. ‘Trevor Bennett wants to talk to us.’
Her face lights up. ‘A confession?’
‘I don’t think so. The motive for the murder of Alicia Poole, hopefully. Are you coming?’
Trevor Bennett is still drowsy which is probably why he hasn’t been released from hospital yet. He has been moved to a room designed for six beds, but a seventh is squeezed between two windows at the end. A bulky woman is snoring in it. Every now and then she groans and pushes the bed sheets aside, revealing a faded red vest and arms covered in tattoos of blue and red roses. Then she starts shivering and pulls the sheets back under her chin.
Trevor has half a dozen pillows piled up under his back, but he has slipped down so that his feet are touching the foot end of the bed. He frowns when he notices Penrose behind me, but he shrugs.
We sit on each side of his bed, Penrose with her little notebook in one hand and a pen in the other, waiting. Bennett looks like he is going to tell me that he won’t say a word until she disappears.
‘Mr Bennett, you lied to us about the night Alicia died,’ she says curtly.
He nods. ‘I lied about it because I knew how it must look. I had no alibi or witnesses.’
‘Can you tell us about it?’ I ask gently.
‘There isn’t much to it. Alicia called me while she was out that evening with her friend Denise. She was scared because she said Collins had seen her and had been very menacing. She knew that he has been threatening me too. I told her to leave the bar and go home where I thought she would be relatively safe. She called me again later that night but she used a different phone number which I didn’t recognise so I didn’t answer it. But she left me a message asking me to call her back on that number urgently because she was really panicking. I … I couldn’t get hold of her any more and I thought … I don’t know what I thought. Collins was … threatening us and we needed to sort this. Anyway, I drove to Cornwall, to her house, but there was nobody there and eventually I went back to Devon.’
‘And you didn’t see her at all that evening?’
‘No. If I’d known she was at that lake … I mean, I almost drove past it! But I didn’t know, honestly.’
‘What was all this about, Trevor? Is this about Briony?’ I ask.
‘Uhm, it’s complicated …’ He pauses, fingers fidgeting with the edge of his blanket. ‘You asked me about that woman. And her daughter.’
‘Susanna Keogh. So you do know her? Her and her daughter Yvonne?’
Penrose started scribbling but she stops after she’s written down Susanna’s name. She’s angry and confused and can barely control herself.
‘I’ve never heard of them before you mentioned her name, but … you said the daughter looks like Briony.’
‘Yes, she does. I’ve seen her.’ I ignore Penrose who is staring at me in disbelief, willing me to explain what’s going on before I take this any further. ‘The resemblance is astonishing.’
He nods gravely. ‘It makes sense. They must be sisters. Half sisters.’
‘You had an affair with … Susanna?’
‘Oh no. It was Sam. Sam Collins.’ His face expresses a mixture of hatred, fear and disgust. ‘He calls himself the godfather.’
41
By the time we get back to the police station it’s almost dark. There is more activity than on a normal weekday evening, but the earlier buzz of excitement has disappeared. The desk officer nods and grins. Congratulating me. Clearly Philpo thinks I’m the hero who caught Collins single-handed while everyone else was looking the other way. I don’t explain to him that it’s pure luck that my unprofessional actions have turned out to be so fortunate. I could easily have got it all very wrong. He tells me that Collins refuses to be represented by a lawyer and is currently being interviewed by Maloney and the DCI. He shakes his head disapprovingly, but I’m not really surprised. Collins is arrogant. He may have convinced himself that he is completely innocent and believes it.
I sit down behind the desk next to DS Rowlands who is responsible for the recording equipment, a task he fulfils with a serious face, given the importance that the right procedures are followed to the letter. He only blinks to acknowledge our presence.
‘How’s it going?’ Penrose asks, almost holding her breath. After what Bennett told us, she’s as hopeful as I am.
Rowlands points at the three men in the interview room. ‘The guy is a clever bastard,’ he replies with a mixture of admiration and disappointment.
Sam Collins is dressed as if he is going to a wedding party. He is clean shaven and his gelled hair is combed neatly across his skull. He looks completely different from the man I spoke to earlier when I went to Marcie Holt’s flat. He seems to have the ability to change into a different person, which is probably why my thoughts didn’t go any further than the idea that he was vaguely familiar. I certainly didn’t recognise him from the CCTV photos from the bars in Newquay.
Opposite him are Maloney and the DCI, both looking extremely frustrated.
‘Has he confessed?’ I ask DS Rowlands.
He looks at me briefly, an expression of ‘are you kidding?’ on his face. ‘Nope.’
‘I need to speak to Maloney.’
‘He said: “no interruptions”,’ Rowlands says flatly. ‘They want to crack on in case Collins changes his mind and wants to be represented by a lawyer.’
‘Has Maloney got his earpiece in?’ I ask, aware of Penrose staring at me again. I know exactly what she’s thinking: it would be in my best interest not to disturb the interview at this point. The story Trevor Bennett told us is too incredible for anyone to take seriously, especially in a murder case like this, until at least we have checked what he told us before we tell anyone else.
‘He has got his earpiece in,’ Rowlands replies hesitantly. ‘Guthrie hasn’t.’
Collins has placed his hands, palms down, flat on the table in front of him, staring at them as if he is considering whether he should cut his nails. His face is emotionless. He looks bored like someone just waiting for a bus.
As if he senses that I am looking at him from behind the one-way mirror, he glances at his reflection and although he can’t see me he is looking right at me. I feel a flicker of discomfort, as if he is putting a spell on me.
‘I have informatio
n for Maloney. It’s urgent.’
Rowlands hesitates again, looking over his shoulder in Penrose’s direction for moral support. She only offers a shrug.
It has gone quiet in the interview room. Collins’s repeated line ‘I didn’t kill Alicia’ still hangs in the air. Maloney stares at a single sheet in front of him on the table and Guthrie makes a show of fiddling with a bundle of files as though the case has so much evidence he can’t decide where to start.
Collins barely looks up, seeming unperturbed. He is relaxed and there is a constant little smirk on his lips, as if he is confident that this will all turn out to be a big mistake for the police force.
Every so often, he takes his glasses off his nose, polishes the lenses with a tiny cloth from the glasses case, and puts them back on, oozing arrogance and superiority. He waits patiently when Maloney reminds him of his rights, asking him again if he is sure he doesn’t want a lawyer. Everything about the body language of all of them suggests that the interview has come to an end and has produced few results.
Ignoring Rowlands’ faint protest, I grab the microphone and lean closer to it. But then Maloney unexpectedly speaks and what he says stuns me to silence. ‘Mr Collins, can you explain to us why one of our officers, DI Tregunna, was found in your flat.’
‘I told you, it is not my flat. He was in my neighbour’s flat. Which reminds me that you haven’t answered my question. Where is Marcie? I am concerned about her.’
Maloney looks up. ‘There is no need to be like that, Mr Collins.’
‘Is she okay?’
Guthrie frowns, looking at Maloney quizzically. I have a suspicion that he doesn’t have a clue who Marcie is or how she is connected to Collins and the enquiry. I secretly smile to myself as Collins, with his arrogant defiance, is one of the few people I have ever seen to put Guthrie off balance. He has managed to unsettle the two detectives and take command of the situation. He sits calmly, as if he knows a bomb is about to explode and he is certain that he’ll be the only survivor.
COVER THE LIES: A TREGUNNA CORNISH CRIME NOVEL Page 30