by Rena George
She looked up and met her senior officer’s cold dark stare, but was saved from any further embarrassment by the appearance of another member of the team, waving the post mortem report on the murder victim.
‘At last,’ Sam turned, hand outstretched. ‘Thanks Alan.’
He scanned the pages and then looked up, frowning, and flipped them across the desk to Amanda. ‘Doesn’t help much - death by drowning.’
‘Well that wasn’t rocket science,’ she murmured as her eyes ran over the report. ‘At least we have an accurate time of death. We can check what the sea conditions were like then. Maybe he got there by boat.’
That was Loveday’s theory, and Sam had already decided she was probably right. He pointed a pen at the report. ‘Our man died some time on Saturday, between early evening and midnight. Let’s double check if anyone saw him that night.’
He saw Amanda glance at the clock and gave her a wry smile. ‘Tomorrow will be fine. You can get off home now.’
After she’d gone, he got up and stood by the window. It overlooked the busy main route in and out of the city and, despite the traffic lights at the roundabout below, it was constantly clogged with daytime traffic. But it was almost seven now, and the city was quiet. He toyed with the idea of calling in at the pub. He knew Merrick Tremayne would probably be there. A pint of his favourite brew was his way of winding down after a working day. Sam liked Merrick and was prepared to set aside his instinctive distrust of journalists to be friends with the man. God knows he had precious few of those.
He sighed and went back to straighten his desk before leaving the office. He’d hardly thought of Tessa at all this week, maybe he was coming to terms with her death. But then, he’d had a murder on his mind. Now that he was alone, though, the nightmare returned. The driver had been drunk – a bloody drunk! The pencil in his hands snapped and he threw it down with a curse. His morose mood continued as he drove home to Stithians, to the house he had shared with Tessa for two years before she was so cruelly snatched from him.
They’d been the perfect match. The long and often irregular hours he had to spend at work had destroyed his first marriage, but if they upset Tessa, she never showed it.
It had been a different thing altogether with Victoria. She hated the Force, and refused to accept the fact that it was such a huge part of Sam’s life. Never a woman to ‘put up with things,’ you either did it her way or you didn’t do it at all. The divorce had been inevitable – and if Sam was being honest with himself, it had been a relief as well. He felt a burden had been lifted from his shoulders. But he did miss the kids. Jack was 11 now, and Maddie, eight. They were growing up so quickly and it wasn’t always easy to get through to Plymouth to see them. He wished they were here with him now.
He turned right at the Devoran roundabout and along the country road that would take him home. When Tessa was alive this would have been a joyful journey as he looked forward to their evening together. The only thing that awaited him now was a cold, empty house full of memories.
He drove past the modern bungalows, with their sweeping, sloping lawns, and pulled up in front of his double fronted stone cottage. It was one of two in a terrace in the heart of the village. He sat looking at it, imagining going in, throwing off his jacket, grabbing a beer from the fridge and slumping down in front of the TV. Suddenly the thought appalled him. He restarted the car’s engine and turned, driving out of the village.
It was dark as he turned down into Marazion. The entrance to the Trevillicks’ place was concealed, but he’d been here before and knew to watch for the high stone pillars that flanked the entrance to their drive. The cottage was tiny in comparison to the main house, and he pulled alongside Loveday’s white Clio. The sounds of squealing children drifted across from the big house and he stopped to listen. Bath time…he remembered nights like this. Seemed like a lifetime ago now.
Loveday never closed her sitting room curtains. It was comforting to see the lights of Penzance and Newlyn twinkling across the water. So she had spotted the low sweep of the car’s headlights as it swung into the drive, and had the door open before Sam even lifted his hand to knock.
‘Inspector…we meet again.’
‘I’ve brought your card back,’ he said, more gruffly than he had intended.
He could have trusted this to even his most junior recruit. She sighed…so there was to be more questioning. She wondered if the rest of the witnesses were receiving the same attention. Perhaps he suspected her…or maybe DI Sam Kitto just didn’t trust journalists and he was here to warn her not to sell her story to one of the tabloids? Yes, that was probably it, she thought.
She stood back to allow his tall frame to pass and the soft tweed of his jacket brushed against her arm. It immediately reminded her again of the Harris Tweed jacket her father wore for his fishing days. It was his lucky jacket, he’d told them all, laughing, because when he wore it, no salmon could resist swallowing his hook.
Loveday had lit the fire when she got in earlier and Sam went straight to it, warming his hands at the flame. The room suddenly looked crowded.
He made no attempt to hand over the card. She’d turned on the lamps and the room was cosy. She caught him glancing at her half-empty glass.
‘I’m sorry. Would you like a drink?’ She thought of offering him tea or coffee but that would have been childish. ‘Only Chardonnay, I’m afraid.’ Was that a smile?
‘That would be very acceptable,’ he said.
Loveday went to the kitchen and returned with the bottle and another glass, which she filled and handed to him before replenishing her own. He was still on his feet and she gestured towards the sofa as she settled into her own chair with her feet tucked under her.
‘Nice cottage,’ he said, looking around him. ‘How long have you been here?’
Her eyes searched the ceiling. ‘Three years. I rented the place from Cassie and Adam, next door, when I got the job on the magazine.’
He was on the point of asking why a career woman like her hadn’t taken a flat in Truro, but then in these surroundings, and dressed in those jeans and thick white sweater, the career image didn’t really suit her. She was watching him, so he sat down, placing his glass carefully on the small table beside him. ‘It’s not an interview,’ he said. ‘Sorry if it came across like that.’
Loveday raised an eyebrow and Sam realised she was waiting for some other explanation for his visit. He fumbled in his jacket pocket and produced a small brown envelope. ‘Your card,’ he said, offering it across.
Loveday reached out to accept it. ‘Any use?’ she asked.
‘We haven’t analysed the pictures yet.’
Still the policeman, she thought, and giving away nothing. They sipped their drinks in silence for a few minutes then DI Kitto said, ‘It must have been a terrible shock…coming across a sight like that.’
He saw Loveday’s fingers tighten around her glass. She was back on the cliffs and staring down into …horror. She gave a sudden shudder. ‘How could anybody be so cruel?’
‘You’d be surprised just how nasty some characters can be.’
‘I suppose you see this all the time, in your job.’
Sam put down his glass. It had been nine months since his last murder case in Redruth, a drugs-related stabbing. They had caught their culprit the next day. ‘Thankfully we don’t have too many murders in Cornwall,’ he said, his face still grim from the memory of yesterday.
Loveday was thoughtful. ‘It’s how the Cornish used to deal with those who betrayed them.’
Sam was staring at her and she realised she had spoken her thoughts aloud.
‘Come again?’ His eyebrow had lifted. He was getting comfortable.
She coloured, feeling foolish that she’d said what she had been thinking, but he was still staring at her waiting for an explanation.
‘It’s just something Cassie told me. There’s a pub along the coast where something similar is supposed to have happened years ago.’
&nb
sp; She repeated the story as he watched her with growing amusement. She pointed a warning finger. ‘Don’t you dare say it’s an old wives’ tale.’
He grinned. ‘I would never be so disrespectful.’ …Well, not out loud anyway, he thought.
‘So you have a better explanation then as to how this poor man got there,’ Loveday said accusingly.
‘We’re still working on it,’ Sam said.
‘Do you at least know who he was?’ Loveday persisted. ‘I mean, was he local?’
Sam’s look was non-committal. ‘We haven’t identified him yet.’
He was the policeman again and Loveday realised her journalist training had unwittingly taken over. She was quizzing him…and DI Kitto was giving nothing away.
They sipped their drinks in awkward silence for a few moments before Loveday said, ‘You really don’t trust journalists, do you, Inspector?’
His brows knitted. ‘You really don’t trust policemen, do you Miss Ross?’
Loveday couldn’t suppress her grin. She raised her glass. ‘Truce?’
Sam did the same. It was the first time she had seen him properly smile and the effect surprised her.
‘Have you eaten?’ she asked, trying to remember what her fridge had to offer. ‘There won’t be much, but I could probably manage an omelette and a few bits of salad.’
‘No, I’m fine, thanks,’ he said abruptly, draining his glass as he stood up to leave.
Loveday shrugged. Apparently an offer to share her supper had been a step out of line and he was putting her in her place by refusing. He really didn’t like journalists. He went out and she winced as he bumped his head again on the low lintel over the front door. She should have reminded him about that.
‘Thanks for bringing the card back,’ she called as he slid in behind the wheel of his car. She watched as the red taillights pulled away, and stayed watching as they moved along the drive and out towards the main road.
Sam stopped to pick up fish and chips when he reached his home village. He ate them from the wrapping with a can of cold beer in front of the television – and imagined Loveday enjoying her omelette with another glass of Chardonnay.
Magdalene had been pacing the room, wondering if she dared ring Martin when the pictures of Borlase Cove flickered across the giant flat screen television that Paul had insisted placing above the fireplace. She cringed every time she saw it. An announcer was reading the local news headlines.
‘Police have still not identified the body of a man found in a cove in West Cornwall on Saturday.’
She stopped, reaching for the remote and turned the sound up. ‘The body was discovered by tourists on a painting holiday in the area. Detective Inspector Sam Kitto of Devon and Cornwall Constabulary, who is leading the inquiry, said in a statement that the man was believed to be aged around 40, 5ft 11ins tall and of slight build with thinning ginger hair.’
Magdalene stared at the screen and felt the bile rise in her throat. It was Paul! They had found her husband’s body!
Her hand shook as she punched in Martin’s number, then immediately cancelled it. Wait, she told herself. Think first! In her mind’s eye she could see Paul, as he’d looked last Friday evening, striding across the room towards her. He hadn’t expected her to return. She’d forgotten her mobile. His grip tightened round the brandy glass he was holding as he tipped the contents down his throat. He slammed it down on the desk, his face contorted with rage.
‘Did you think I didn’t know about your fancy man?’ He’d moved forward, and his mouth was twisted into an evil grin. She could feel his breath on her skin. ‘I’ve had you followed…Oh yes,’ he scowled, ‘you didn’t know that, did you? Well you and your holy boyfriend – or should I say unholy boyfriend? – You’re going to get what’s coming to you…won’t that be a nice little scandal?’
Magdalene’s throat tightened. She’d tried to speak, to explain, but no words came.
‘Well, what’s wrong little girl?’ he leered, ‘Is Daddy not here to bail you out any more?’
Magdalene moved away from him, but Paul grabbed her arm, ‘You didn’t really think I was going to let you get away with this…did you?’
Her fists tightened and the fear that had initially gripped her suddenly turned to fury. She rounded on him, lifting her chin to match his venom with her own. ‘No Paul, not this time! This time I’m giving the orders…and you’ll do nothing.’
He raised his hand and she thought he was about to strike her, but he stepped back, his face registering disbelief. She took courage from that and pushed him further away. ‘It stops here!’ she screamed. ‘All your evil plots…they stop right here!’
But the sneer was back on his face. ‘Oh yes?’ he taunted. ‘And just what do you plan to do about it?’
Suddenly she knew exactly what she was going to do about it. He stared after her as she ran. Her mind was made up. There was no other way!
Reliving the ugly scene had left her drained. She poured herself a gin and drank it down straight, then rang the mobile she had bought Martin for their exclusive use.
His voice, when he answered, was muffled. ‘For pity’s sake, Mags. We agreed not to call each other. I’ve had to come out of a meeting.’
Magdalene’s temper snapped. ‘I’m sorry if this is inconveniencing you, Reverend.’ She hated hearing the sarcasm in her voice but was helpless to stop it. ‘You haven’t heard the news, have you?’ She tried to keep her tone steady but it rose alarmingly on the final word.
‘What news?’ he snapped. Martin had moved along the corridor of the youth centre where his meeting was taking place.
‘It’s him! They’ve found him, Martin.’ Her voice wavered and she held the edge of the table to steady her. ‘I think they’ve found Paul’s body.’
Hesitantly she recounted the details of the news bulletin.
‘Calm down, darling.’ Martin tried to speak soothingly. She sounded as if she was falling apart. He had to think fast.
‘I’m going to the police.’ Magdalene said flatly.
‘No! We need to think about this.’ He could see his world collapsing. They had done a terrible thing and there would be no forgiveness once it came to light. It had all started so innocently that first day when she came to him. He’d noticed her in church, of course. Who hadn’t? A chic, stylish, beautiful young woman stood in his church. But she didn’t seem to notice the envious glances of the other female parishioners, or the more meaningful stares of the men in his congregation. That Sunday, as he stood at the door of the church after the service shaking hands with his parishioners as they filed out, she had held his hand just a bit longer than the others. It prompted him to ask if she was all right. She smiled and nodded her thanks, but he noticed that she had lingered in the churchyard until the last people had gone. He waited as she walked back up the path towards him.
‘Can I speak to you, vicar?’
In the small room at the back of the church where he kept his robes and the flower vases were stored, he pulled out a chair and invited her to sit. She ignored the chair.
‘I don’t know where else to turn.’
To his surprise large tears rolled down her cheeks and she looked so vulnerable that he had to stop himself from gathering her into his arms and whispering soothing words. He listened, intrigued, as she poured out the story of a disastrous marriage.
The unexpected interruption of his other mobile made them both jump. His home number flashed and he clicked it on. ‘Don’t tell me you’re going to be late, again, Martin?’ His wife, Joan’s voice was slightly irritated. He could hear his children in the background - 12-months-old Timmy, Jemima 4, and their six-year-old twins, Sophie and Rory – they were squabbling.
Magdalene was rummaging in her bag for a tissue. ‘I’m keeping you,’ she said, making for the door. ‘Thanks for listening to me.’
Looking down into her large blue eyes he should have recognised the danger signs. She wasn’t, after all, the first attractive, vulnerable female he
’d had to deal with. It wasn’t as though he didn’t know the pitfalls. But he heard himself arranging to meet her next day - to talk things over.
It hadn’t taken long after that for their relationship to develop into an affair. He hated himself for it. Sitting at the breakfast table each morning, surrounded by the trusting faces of his children as they tucked into their cereal, were the worst times…And Joan…she didn’t deserve this. Why was he risking losing his family? But then he remembered Magdalene, the smell of her skin, the feel of her hair, silky through his fingers. How could he not protect her from the monster she was married to?
This weekend it had all come to a head. Paul Bentine knew about them. He was threatening to destroy him…to tell Martin’s family about the affair. He couldn’t let him do that!
Magdalene’s voice on his mobile brought him back to the present.
‘I’m going to the police,’ she repeated.
His hand shook as he pleaded with her. ‘Do you know what you’re saying? I’ll come over. Don’t do anything yet.’
But Magdalene voice was resolute. ‘My mind’s made up. I have to tell them.’
CHAPTER FIVE
At 11.30am on Tuesday morning Magdalene walked into Truro Police Station and handed over the photograph of Paul that she had carefully selected from the album. ‘I’d like to report my husband missing,’ she told the young sergeant. She fancied she noticed his eyebrows rise when he looked at Paul’s picture. She gave her name and address, and details of when she had last seen her husband. He jotted them down on a pad then showed Magdalene into a side room. Ten minutes passed before the door opened and a tall man in a dark tweed jacket entered. The woman who followed him was shorter, younger, and with a shock of ginger hair that she had unsuccessfully attempted to tame by tying it back on the nape of her neck.
The man’s smile was professional as he extended his hand. ‘I’m Detective Inspector Kitto.’ He turned to his companion. ‘And this is Detective Constable Fox. Please take a seat Mrs…’ He glanced at his notes. ‘…Mrs Bentine’