Snapped in Cornwall

by Janie Bolitho

  ‘You can’t deceive me, Jim Penrose.’

  ‘The woman’s dead. Let it be.’

  ‘Attractive, wasn’t she, with all that black hair? And you, touching her arm like…’ Eileen had stopped, knowing she had gone too far.

  ‘Touching her arm? When?’ Realisation dawned. ‘You bitch, you’ve been following me.’

  Eileen turned away and busied herself at the sink. That was when he had walked out. If she had gone to those lengths, was she capable of murder? He could not bear to think of it. But the police had been back again to see her. She had not said so but he had seen them drive off as he returned the previous evening. His own interview had gone on long enough but he understood the reason. He had been on the premises three times and knew his way around. His wife was working there on the night of the party and would be otherwise occupied; if he had reason to kill Mrs Milton it was a perfect opportunity, especially as no one would be surprised to see him with Eileen being there. Mrs Milton had mentioned the party to him and, although she had phrased it subtly, he understood why he was not to be a guest. It might lead to awkwardness between husband and wife if one was present in a social capacity and the other as an employee. Had Gabrielle also had an inkling of Eileen’s suspicions? If so, she had definitely done the right thing. Eileen would never have forgiven him if he had accepted an invitation.

  After he had installed a shower unit in a newly converted cottage it was still only four thirty, and Jim had no more work that day. He left the van quite close to the house, handy for the morning, then took himself to the nearest pub. He did not intend his drinking to be limited by what Eileen thought was good for him, nor would he be home in time for the supper which was always on the table at six thirty.

  And, he thought defiantly, I shan’t go home until she’s back from Bingo. That’ll give her something to think about. Jim Penrose ordered his second pint of Hicks bitter.

  Satisfied that the clothing she had chosen as suitable for London was ironed and in the airing cupboard, Rose wondered exactly how she would go about what she planned to do. Barry had telephoned to say he would pick her up at ten so they could reach London in time to shower and change and have a couple of drinks before dinner. The trade show was not until the day after. Barry would attend for all of the first day but only the morning of the second. It was all over by then anyway, and most of the stalls started packing up around lunchtime.

  Still not having shopped, Rose drove down to Newlyn and got a Chinese take-away. It would also save washing up and she would, no matter who tried to interrupt her, have an evening at home with a book.

  Only half her mind was on the radio programme she had switched on to listen to whilst she ate. Presumably the police had spoken to everyone who had been at the Miltons’ that night but they didn’t seem to be getting anywhere. Not that they would tell me, Rose reflected. And presumably, if more questions needed to be asked of the few people from London, the Met would deal with it.

  Barry was exactly on time and Rose was ready. For the journey she was wearing trousers; her tan suit was carefully folded in her overnight bag. ‘I’m looking forward to this,’ she said. And she was. The prospect of two days away from work and all that had been happening was a welcome one. She would, of course, be pleased to come home again when it was over.

  ‘Are you coming to the fair with me?’

  ‘Not the first day. I want to do some shopping.’ Of a sort, she added silently, still unsure why she was so obsessed with Gabrielle Milton’s death. Perhaps it was because she had found the body and because she felt she had lost a possible friend. ‘Do you know, this is the first time I’ve been up since David died?’

  Barry glanced at her briefly, then returned his eyes to the road. It was not said with any trace of pain.

  With a shock Rose realised how parochial she had allowed her life to become.

  Barry took one hand off the wheel to brush back the strands of hair over his balding scalp. He had timed it well, the roads were not too busy at this hour. But shopping? In the twenty-odd years he had known Rose she had never shown the least interest in shopping. It crossed his mind she might want to purchase new clothes to impress Dennis Milton.

  Rose was also thinking of Dennis. If her efforts came to nothing she would invite him over, with Paul and Anna. Paul had said she would be down again for the weekend. And what was it that Paul did that allowed him so much time off work? At dinner, Dennis had said he was staying down at least another week. Strange she had not thought to ask, she was naturally curious.

  ‘Do you want me to drive?’ Rose asked when they stopped at Exeter services for petrol and a cup of coffee.

  ‘Think you can handle it?’

  Rose narrowed her eyes. ‘I’ve driven bigger and better cars than yours.’

  ‘Only teasing.’

  Rose took the wheel and switched on the radio. It was tuned to Radio 4. She fiddled with the knob and found a music station. She was in the mood for something livelier.

  They had taken it steadily and, with the stop, reached London a little after five o’clock. The hotel had an underground car-park with a complicated security system which they finally worked out. Having registered at the desk they went up to their separate rooms. ‘See you in the bar at – what? Seven? Is that too early?’

  ‘That’s fine, Barry.’

  ‘You don’t want to do any shopping first?’

  ‘They close at five thirty!’

  ‘I appreciate that, Rosie, dear, but I suspect it’s not retail shopping you were talking about.’

  ‘I …’ But Barry was already striding down the corridor, turning once to smirk at her over his shoulder.

  She was downstairs first and sat at the bar on a stool, absent-mindedly picking at the peanuts and olives in dishes in front of her. Showered, her hair pinned up neatly, and dressed in the tan suit, a cream shirt and heeled shoes, she had thought she would blend in with the other clientele; however, some of the women strolling through the marbled reception area, which she could see through the wide doorway, and those who entered the bar with their escorts, made her feel provincial. Suddenly she grinned. The barman smiled back and asked if she wanted another drink.

  ‘No, thanks.’ It had occurred to her, perched as she was in full view, a single female with her slim legs crossed, that she might be sending out all the wrong signals. Two businessmen came in, briefcases in hand, but they did not give her a second glance. Rose was not sure whether to be pleased or disappointed.

  ‘Been waiting long?’ Barry asked.

  ‘No. Ten minutes.’

  ‘Sorry. Had to make a couple of calls. What’re you drinking?’

  ‘Vodka and tonic. I didn’t want to get stuck into the cocktails.’

  ‘Have what you like, it’s all going on the bill.’

  ‘I’m paying for myself, Barry.’

  The barman watched with amusement as they argued amiably about how they would settle the account. Rose finally convinced Barry that she was not prepared to let him pay but agreed the drinks could go on his room. At times like that she saw why a relationship, other than the one they had, would not have worked. Barry could be peevish at times, almost petulant, like a small child, and she became exasperated with him. He pushed his glasses firmly on to the bridge of his nose and turned away, not speaking for several minutes.

  ‘Where shall we go to eat?’

  They had glanced in at the hotel dining-room and studied the menu on the board outside but it did not appeal to them. Rose would let him pay for the meal; she did not want any more sulking.

  Enjoying the sights and sounds they strolled around and found a restaurant which they both liked. When they returned to the hotel Rose fell asleep immediately.

  ‘Come on the train, Anna, there’s no point in us having both cars here. I’ll pick you up from the station.’ Paul had studied the timetable Gabrielle kept handy. ‘I love you,’ he said, once the arrangements were made.

  ‘Me too,’ Anna replied. She replac
ed the receiver. With Gabrielle dead everything had changed. Paul had been fond of his mother, more than fond, unlike the way she had felt about her own parents. She had never been able to forgive them for what she thought of as their sins. She had not seen them for ten years.

  Anna picked up the telephone again, dialled the number of the shop where her wedding dress was being made and arranged a time for a fitting.

  At the weekend she would return to Cornwall and take stock of exactly how much Paul had inherited. It had taken her a long time to come this far.

  Rose and Barry breakfasted early as Barry was due at the exhibition centre at eight thirty to get set up. ‘Shall we meet back here?’

  ‘Yes. That’s easiest. About the same time? And it’s my turn to pay for the meal tonight.’ Rose had agreed he could pay for her room, otherwise she would never hear the end of it, but she would not allow him to pay for everything. Barry did not have time to argue.

  Hoping she appeared more confident than she felt, Rose got a Tube to the area where the music company Dennis worked for was based. She found it easily and made her request to the receptionist, expecting to be asked a lot of questions or to have to see someone else. She held her breath as the girl put through a couple of incoming calls. She had got the address from Yellow Pages having remembered the name from the night of the party when Gabrielle mentioned it as they were going through the proofs. It was a company even Rose had heard of.

  ‘Thank you, that’s very kind.’ Rose left the building without having to speak to anyone else. How easily she had lied and how quickly the girl had believed her. Rose had told her she was an old friend of the Miltons and had only just heard the news. She pretended to be disappointed to hear Dennis was not in the office.

  ‘I’m not sure where he is. All I know is that he won’t be back for a while yet.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ Rose had said. ‘I’ve tried their address in Cornwall and he’s not there either.’

  Without having to ask, she was provided with the number and street of the London flat. The girl, presumably, thought that if Rose knew the Miltons well enough to possess one address there could be no harm in letting her have the other.

  What do I expect to find there? she thought as she waited to cross the busy street. Studying the Tube map she saw the journey only involved one change.

  Luck was with her. The woman who cleaned for Dennis answered the door. ‘I’m only here twice a week at the moment,’ she said, asking Rose in. ‘Just to keep an eye on the place really. I still can’t take it in, you know. Such a lovely woman.’ She stopped and studied Rose suspiciously. ‘We haven’t met before, have we?’

  ‘No. I’ve been away for quite a long time. I’ve only just heard myself. I thought Dennis might be here, they said at his office they weren’t sure where he was.’

  ‘He’s still down there. I don’t know what he’ll do about the funeral.’

  ‘Well, I’m sorry to have troubled you. Perhaps it would have been a bit much for Dennis, me turning up out of the blue. I know …’ She paused as if the idea had just come to her. ‘I could get a message to him via Paul. That way, if he doesn’t want to see people there’s no harm done.’ She rummaged in her handbag. ‘Damn it I haven’t got my diary with me.’

  ‘I can’t help you there, dear.’ The woman, who had not given her name, sniffed and brushed back stiff blonde hair. ‘I don’t know where he lives. I know where his office is, though.’

  ‘Fine. I’ll leave a message there.’

  ‘You can phone from here if you like. I’m sure Mr Milton wouldn’t mind.’

  ‘No, don’t worry. I’d prefer to write a note.’

  She listened to the directions and memorised them. Wandsworth was not an area she knew. By the time she got there it was almost lunchtime.

  Standing outside the run-down premises she thought Dennis’s cleaner must have been mistaken, but the sign on the fascia board confirmed that it was the right place. Paint peeled from the woodwork where the sun had blistered it and the window, through which could be seen revolving cards displaying properties, was dirty. It might be that the place was leased and the landlord responsible for outside upkeep, but surely Paul had the money for a coat of paint?

  The inside was a little better.

  ‘Can I help you?’ A young man jumped up from his seat behind a teak-veneered desk.

  ‘I’m not sure. I’m looking for a flat really, but I wasn’t sure where to start.’

  ‘Renting or buying?’

  ‘Renting.’ Rose did not want to raise the man’s hopes; perhaps he would simply say they did not deal in rented accommodation.

  ‘Actually, we’ve got a couple of places on the books. I’m not sure they’ll be what you’re after, though.’ He seemed to be sizing her up. ‘Of course, if you did decide to buy you wouldn’t be wasting all that rent.’ He turned and pulled open the drawer of a filing cabinet. ‘Are you from around here?’ Rose shook her head. ‘You do realise how expensive things are in London?’ He had detected a West Country burr. ‘How many bedrooms were you thinking of?’ There was a wedding band on her finger; there might be teenage children.

  ‘Oh, two, I suppose.’ How adept she was in deceit, but how mean it made her feel. ‘I’m a widow,’ she added, just to add some particle of truth.

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘It’s all right.’ People always said they were sorry. How could they be, when they knew neither her nor David? But the young man was pleasant enough.

  ‘Did you just walk in on the off-chance or did you hear of us through somebody?’

  ‘I was passing, but I had heard of you. One of my friends knows Paul Milton. That’s not you, is it?’

  ‘No. Paul’s the boss. He’s away at the moment. Family problems.’

  Rather an understatement, Rose thought, but he might only be aware that Gabrielle was dead, not that she had been murdered. No, impossible. The police would have made their own investigations: if this was the state of Paul’s business, he might be more than keen to inherit earlier than was anticipated. She gave the man credit for his circumspection.

  ‘May I take these with me?’

  ‘Of course. I could take you to look at them this afternoon if you like.’

  Rose was at the door. ‘I’d like to study the details first. I’ll let you know.’ How ridiculous to imagine she could swan up to London and hope to find anything. Did she really think she was smarter than the Met? Possibly smarter than DI Pearce, though. Pearce with the laconic expression and mocking eyes who never seemed to be in a rush and was surely getting nowhere in finding Gabrielle’s killer.

  ‘Mrs, er … just a minute.’

  Rose was surprised to see the young man in the shop doorway, locking up.

  ‘Look, I haven’t been strictly fair with you. It’s just … well, I feel I may have wasted your time.’

  ‘Oh?’ She was not the only one who wasn’t playing straight. ‘Look, it’s almost one. Do you fancy a quick drink and a sandwich?’

  ‘Yes. Why not? There’s a good place about a hundred yards down the road.’ He turned the sign to closed and locked the door.

  They walked in silence, both surprised at the situation they had found themselves in. ‘My name’s Gareth.’

  ‘I’m Beth.’ Rose crossed her fingers. At least it was her mother’s name. She did not want Paul or Dennis to find out she’d been snooping.

  Rose insisted on paying for the drinks and they took them to a table near the frosted window. A plush bench seat ran along the length of the wall. The tables were solid, with heavy iron legs. It was a typical city pub and filling up rapidly.

  The extractor fans were prominent and noisy but had little effect on the stale, heavy air or the cigarette smoke which drifted upwards in spirals. All was overlaid with the smell of chips.

  ‘I don’t know what to say really, Beth.’

  He was not afraid of using her name. It was probably a good selling technique.

  ‘Beth,’ he repeated, causing
her to smile. ‘It suits you.’ He studied her unselfconsciously. When she had been with David she had been pleased to be the object of complimentary glances because she was in a position of being safe and loved. These days, if she received them, she did not notice. What did Gareth make of her from a distance of about twenty years?

  ‘You said you’d heard of us. How well do you know Paul Milton?’

  ‘Not that well at all. Why do you ask?’ The positions had been reversed. Rose was supposed to be asking the questions.

  ‘It’s just that if you were a friend … no, never mind.’

  ‘What’s bothering you, Gareth?’

  ‘God, it’s awful. I don’t know what to do, and now with the police … Look, Paul is the boss in real terms although he persuaded me to go into partnership with him. His share of the business is the greater. To be honest, I was happy enough working for him. I like meeting people and the salary was acceptable. I wasn’t going to be an estate agent for ever, I go to night classes. We were doing well and I changed my mind. Then the recession hit. And now … well …’ He left another sentence unfinished.

  ‘And now?’

  ‘I’m not sure.’

  Rose guessed he was deciding how much he could tell her without being disloyal but it was obvious he needed someone to talk to. Who better than a stranger whom he would never see again?

  ‘I’ve been sitting there hour after hour in that bloody empty office and I can’t get hold of Paul. There’s no answer from his flat and I don’t have the number in Cornwall. I’m tempted just to lock up and dump the keys through the letter-box.’

  ‘Are you in some sort of trouble?’

  ‘Yes. Financially, that is. We owe money all over the place. If something isn’t done about it within a few days the bailiffs’ll be in. Not that there’s anything much for them to take. The fax and most of the electronic stuff is on lease. Paul does all the bookwork, you see. I had no idea how deeply we were in, not until the police came to speak to me about Mrs Milton’s death and they began looking into Paul’s financial status.’