Snapped in Cornwall

by Janie Bolitho

  Rose had expected it would be so but she was disappointed to hear it. Did they suspect Paul, then? Perhaps that’s why he was still in Cornwall, maybe he had no choice but to remain there until the investigation was over.

  ‘But I thought I’d heard his parents had money, couldn’t they have helped him out?’

  Gareth shook his head. The mid-brown hair, brushed back and gelled, remained motionless. ‘They’ve bailed him out before. From what I gather they’ve refused to do so again. At least I haven’t got a girlfriend at the moment. Paul’s got Anna to think of. They’re supposed to be getting married.’

  Things were falling into place. No wonder they had brought forward their wedding; Anna did not look the sort to put up with making do. If Gabrielle had left them the house it would sell for a lot of money, enough probably for Paul to start up in something else.

  ‘I was so worried,’ Gareth was saying. ‘You see, initially, I thought … well, I thought Paul may have done it. Killed his mother.’

  Only when spoken aloud, and by somebody other than herself, did the enormity of one of the possibilities Rose had been considering hit her.

  It was strange how looks and a certain sort of upbringing could lead to misconceptions. Paul dressed and spoke nicely and exuded confidence even though he was not very talkative in her presence. She had put his manner down to grief, not realising how many other worries he had; Paul’s careful upbringing had not done him much good.

  ‘Beth? Another drink?’

  ‘Oh, yes, please.’ Barry would have been amazed to know how long she had been sitting nursing an empty glass.

  ‘I’m sorry, I’ve been boring you. I just wanted you to know that if you had decided on any of those flats I’m not sure that the deal would’ve gone ahead.’

  ‘Thank you for being honest,’ Rose said, knowing what a hypocrite she was.

  ‘Well…’ He grinned. It was a nice smile. ‘You’ve helped me make up my mind. I’m not going back there. I’ll post the keys to Paul’s house and write him a letter. As soon as I get another job I’ll start repaying whatever my share of the debt is. Thanks for listening. You’re a nice lady. You remind me of my mum.’

  ‘Cheers.’ Rose raised her glass sardonically. She could have done without the last comment.

  The conversation moved on to more general topics, then Rose said she had to leave. There was time, after all, to do some shopping. Maybe a dress which she would wear this evening – that would make Barry eat his words.

  ‘Nice meeting you, Beth.’ Gareth shook her hand. ‘Poor old Paul, there’s nothing he wouldn’t do for Anna and I think the reverse is also true. They idolise one another.’

  Was it intended, Rose wondered, to be a deliberate parting shot? Was Gareth trying to tell her something? He did, she noticed, walk away in the opposite direction from that in which the shop lay.

  As she stood on the pavement orientating herself she recalled what Barry had said about Paul trying to gain his father’s attention. Had he been trying to talk Dennis into lending or giving him more money? And, having failed, had he taken things into his own hands? And if he was so devoted to Anna – if, as he claimed, there was nothing he would not do to make her happy – wasn’t this another motive? So why had he and Anna been arguing?

  The dress was of pale-blue wool, fully lined and so very soft to the touch. Rose saw it and had to have it. She only shook a little as she signed the credit card slip but it flattered her and brought out the colour of her eyes.

  Not until she was half-way down Regent Street did she realise she had no shoes to match. The court shoes she had brought to go with the suit were tan.

  With a little shrug she returned to Oxford Street to find a shoe shop. It’s only money, she thought, and heard the oft-repeated phrase used in West Cornwall for any and every eventuality: ‘Madder do er?’ It had taken her several weeks to discover this meant ‘It doesn’t matter, does it?’ and only the upward inflection at the end had given it away.

  Back at the hotel she had enough time for a soak in the bath, much needed after the grime of the city. The dress was on a hanger, the navy shoes by the bed. She had taken the precaution of rubbing soap around the heels. Her tendency to wear espadrilles or sandals all summer made winter shoes rub initially.

  Why, as she soaped herself, Jack Pearce should come into her mind was a mystery, but she saw his face clearly. Ought she to say where she had been? No, there was no need. The police had already spoken to Gareth.

  ‘Wow. Terrific,’ was all Barry said when she met him that evening.

  Too late Rose realised Barry might believe she was all dressed up for his benefit.

  Doreen Clarke, clad in a raincoat and with a woollen hat pulled down over her straight grey hair, got into Cyril’s car feeling like a schoolgirl let out early. The Miltons were going out in the evening and she need not return that day.

  ‘Can’t make that girl out at all,’ she said, strapping the seat belt around her. ‘Doesn’t say much. Nervy sort, if you ask me. Still, if there’s a big wedding coming up it’s hardly surprising.’

  Cyril waited patiently for traffic to pass before he negotiated the roundabout at the bottom of the hill.

  ‘He’s all right, Mr Milton – not quite as classy as his wife, but his heart’s in the right place. I heard them talking about the will. Seems the solicitor’s been on the phone. Apparently they were going to do it proper, like – you know, have it read out after the funeral, though God knows when that’ll take place. Seems the police’ve got there first. They wanted to know what was in it, who’d benefit.’

  Cyril waited. He wondered how his wife had been privy to this conversation. It was not the sort of thing discussed in front of the daily. He did not put her in an awkward position by asking.

  ‘Cyril? Aren’t you interested?’

  ‘Yes. I was waiting for you to go on.’

  ‘Well, I couldn’t hear the rest of it because of all the shouting. All hell was let lose, I can tell you. Do you think they’ll put it in the paper? How much she left?’

  ‘I doubt it. They usually only do that when there’re no beneficiaries or if one person receives an enormous figure.’

  ‘Well, they might, if it’s relevant to the murder. I hope they do.’

  Cyril let her continue talking. No doubt Doreen would find out what the sum was through one means or another.

  ‘You won’t mind if I go to Bingo, will you?’ Doreen had not been for several weeks. Mostly she went with Maureen but since Eileen had started going too, she had taken to going with a neighbour. Maureen was a laugh; she could not understand how two sisters could be so unalike.

  ‘You enjoy yourself, love. You haven’t had a night out for ages.’

  By his complaisant smile Doreen guessed there would be football on the television.

  She rang the neighbour, Teresa, and arranged to call for her. They always had one drink first, a whisky and lime for Doreen, and a bottle of Pils for her friend. After the session, in which Teresa shared a win and picked up four pounds, they returned to the pub. It was much busier now with only half an hour or so before last orders were called. It was Teresa’s turn to buy the round.

  They watched the other customers, easy in each other’s company. A group of men were discussing rugby; there were several couples and a pair in their late teens in the corner. ‘Look at them,’ Doreen said. ‘It’s embarrassing to watch. I don’t know why they’ve wasted their money on drink. They might as well go home to bed and get on with it.’

  ‘Doreen!’ Teresa laughed and turned to see if she knew who the couple were. ‘Jesus! Don’t look now, but you’ll never guess who’s just come in.’

  ‘Who? My, my. Fancy that.’ Doreen stared openly at Jim Penrose and Rita Chynoweth as they entered the bar, arm in arm and both, she guessed, the worse for wear.

  ‘Wait till Eileen hears about this. Still, it won’t be from me.’

  ‘Nor me,’ Doreen said. But she would have liked to be there when Eileen di
d hear.

  Barry was startled when Rose produced a small plastic bag and handed it to him. ‘A gift,’ she said.

  ‘Isn’t it a bit … well … modern for me?’ He held the loudly patterned tie away from him as if it was offensive.

  ‘No. Everyone’s wearing them. It’ll go with that jacket you got in Burton’s sale. You should splash out more, you’ve nothing else to spend your fortune on.’

  I’d spend my money on you, Rosie, he thought. ‘Thank you.’ He kissed her cheek, which was the only intimacy she ever allowed him. ‘Ok. Let’s go and eat.’ Barry was too moved to add anything further.

  ‘I could get hooked on this.’ Rose stirred the cocktail she was drinking.

  ‘You’d get hooked on tap water if someone told you it was alcoholic. You still coming with me tomorrow?’

  ‘Yes.’ She had had enough of the Miltons. Her obsession, she realised, was fading. And it would be interesting to see if anyone was keen to buy any of her work in its finished form.

  The following day left them both exhausted, and Barry drove off as soon as he had delivered Rose to her door. The trade fair had been busier during the second morning than Barry had anticipated, then there was the packing up and the long drive back.

  Rose had looked around the fair but had to admit, after two hours, she was bored. She whiled away the time drinking coffee. They had toyed with the idea of staying a third night and driving back slowly the next day but it would have been unfair on the woman who had come in to run the shop in Barry’s absence.

  Rose drove for the first part of the journey home and they stopped again at the same services; she was fascinated by the crowds of people and asked Barry where he thought they could all be going. It was warm and they were surrounded with the smell of food. Rose could see how tired Barry was and insisted they drive with the radio on and the windows open.

  It was with a sense of relief that she let herself in, threw on the light switches and dumped her holdall on the bottom stair. ‘We’ll get our priorities right here,’ she said aloud, reaching for the corkscrew and a bottle of claret. They had not had a drink as both of them were driving. She carried the glass through to the sitting-room. The light on the answering machine was flashing twice rapidly in succession before a short pause. She clicked it on. ‘I don’t particularly wish to leave a message,’ Laura’s voice told her, ‘but as your social life’s so full lately, I suppose I’ll have to. I’ll call round in the morning. I want to hear every sordid detail of your two nights in London.’

  Rose smiled. Typical Laura. Straight in with what she wanted to say and no clue as to who was calling. Except that, after all those years, Rose could not mistake her voice.

  ‘Mrs Trevelyan,’ the second message started. This was a voice she did not know. Rose sat on the chair nearest the telephone with a pen and paper handy. ‘It’s Maggie Anderson. I’d hoped to catch you at home. It’s now six thirty. If it’s convenient I’ll try again later.’

  But six thirty when? Tonight or yesterday? If it had been the previous day Maggie may have got tired of getting nothing but the machine. No, it had to be tonight. Laura knew when she was due back and had said she would see her in the morning. Maggie’s call had come after Laura’s.

  With a second glass of wine beside her, Rose ate some cheese on toast which was all she was up to making and thought over the events of the last two days. Tomorrow, maybe, she would commit those thoughts to paper.

  At eleven thirty she pulled the duvet up around her ears and turned on her side with the intention of reading. When she woke the bedside light was still on and her book was on the floor, pages splayed. Maggie Anderson had not rung back.

  Laura did not stay long once she had learned that Rose and Barry had remained in their separate rooms. Chewing her lip as she wondered if it was wise to invite Dennis to her home, Rose dialled the number anyway. He accepted the invitation on behalf of the three of them, having spoken briefly to Paul – he must have been in the same room for Rose heard a muffled conversation. Anna, who had not yet arrived down from London, was not to be consulted, it seemed.

  It was a blustery day, the windows rattled and the first of the falling leaves were swept across the lawn. Rose made coffee and took it up to the dark-room where she developed the film containing the two jobs she had done the previous week. As she worked she planned what she would cook for the Miltons, a task she looked forward to. Apart from the occasional visit from Laura or Barry she had only herself to cater for and, although she ate well, she would enjoy having to make a real effort.

  Mid-morning it began raining again. Rose flicked the switch and the kitchen was bright, the overhead fluorescent light dispelling the shadows. With a dog-eared cookery book open in front of her she made a shopping list. When the phone rang she half expected it to be Dennis, cancelling the arrangement.

  ‘Mrs Trevelyan? It’s Maggie Anderson. I’m sorry I didn’t get back to you last night. I … well, I wanted to apologise. I was rude to you that day in Camborne. I hope you don’t mind me ringing.’

  ‘No.’ Rose was puzzled. She had known something wasn’t quite right when they had that one drink together and it had crossed her mind that the woman might try to contact her. But why? ‘I was surprised at what you told me, I didn’t think you were particularly rude.’

  ‘I shouldn’t have said anything. There was no reason for me to involve you.’

  ‘It’s all right. I shan’t say anything.’ Not to Dennis or his family or anyone else, but she had already told DI Pearce. To have hidden it, she excused herself, might be classed as shielding a suspect. Both Dennis and Maggie might have wished for Gabrielle to be out of the way.

  ‘Thank you. It’s too late for that, though. The police came to see me again last night. That’s why I was unable to call you back. It’s the second time since I’ve been home.’

  During the pause Rose sensed her anxiety. ‘Do they suspect you?’

  ‘Yes. But I didn’t do it. God, if only I could turn the clock back. I should never have accepted that invitation. And Dennis won’t have anything to do with me, I believe he might suspect me too.’

  Maggie Anderson was paying for her sins and Rose felt some sympathy. There was little she could say to her, and she was not really sure why Maggie had rung. Why apologise to someone you had spoken to once and you were not likely to come across again? Unless it was a ploy – perhaps Maggie hoped she’d put in a good word for her with Dennis. But Rose was not going to interfere. A bit late for that, she thought, when the conversation had come to a faltering end. Why else had she invited the Miltons over?

  When the rain stopped she walked down to the shops and purchased what she would need for the following evening plus staples for the fridge. Not fancying a struggle up the hill with the groceries she stood at the bus stop where several other people were already waiting. When a car she did not recognise tooted, Rose did not, at first, realise that DI Pearce was behind the wheel. He leant across to the passenger side. ‘Need a lift?’ he asked through the partially opened window.

  She hesitated, feeling curious eyes upon her. ‘Thank you,’ she said coolly and got into the car.

  ‘Home, I take it?’

  ‘Please.’ She remained silent, wondering why he was in Newlyn and hoping it was not because he needed to speak to her again.

  He pulled in off the road but was unable to get into the drive. His car was too large and Rose’s was parked there anyway. ‘Do I get invited in for coffee? You do make nice coffee.’

  ‘Really? You left it last time. I do have things to do.’ She had imagined his tone was playful.

  ‘I, too, have things to do, Mrs Trevelyan,’ he replied, letting her see her mistake. ‘I have to find whoever killed Gabrielle Milton. Can you spare me a few minutes?’

  ‘Yes.’ It was an official visit then. How stupid of her to have thought otherwise. She tried to ignore her disappointment.

  DI Pearce did not offer to carry her shopping. She dumped it on the back doorstep and
unlocked the door, leaving him to follow and shut it behind him. Silently she filled the kettle. It would be instant this time.

  ‘Mrs Trevelyan –’

  ‘Oh, for goodness’ sake, call me Rose.’

  ‘Rose, then. I asked you before if you knew of anyone who would wish Mrs Milton harm. You assured me you did not. You claim you barely knew the lady. You also claimed you had never set eyes on Miss Anderson before the party either.’

  ‘It’s true.’ Rose jumped to her own defence. Jack Pearce irritated her.

  ‘All right. But I find it hard to understand, if you have so little interest in the family, why you’ve been poking around in London, turning up at the Miltons’ flat and questioning Paul Milton’s partner.’

  Rose felt the colour flooding into her face. Put like that, she sounded like an interfering old bag.

  ‘What you told us, about Miss Anderson, has been very helpful but I find it surprising that she confided such a matter to a stranger. Can you enlighten me?’

  ‘No. I don’t know why she did it. And she telephoned to apologise for doing so. Perhaps she just wanted to get it off her chest.’ Better to admit to the call; the way Pearce was getting at her she wouldn’t be surprised if he had tapped her line.

  ‘Possibly. Another possibility is that she thinks you know something; that she is trying to cultivate your friendship in order to find out what it is.’

  ‘You have a nasty mind, inspector.’

  ‘It’s a nasty job, Rose. What were you aiming to do? In London?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ She tightened the band around her hair for something to do with her hands, feeling like a scolded child. ‘Maybe you think I killed Gabrielle. Is that why you keep coming here?’

  ‘It crossed my mind.’

  She had, she realised, asked for that. Naturally everyone who had attended that evening would be under suspicion. And she had found the body. ‘I never went upstairs.’

  ‘Upstairs?’

  ‘She was pushed from the balcony.’