A Cornish Revenge (The Loveday Ross Cornish Mysteries Book 1) (14 page)

  ‘Could you draw it again, Lawrence…just what you remember?’

  He took a pencil from the top pocket of his jacket and began to sketch.

  Loveday looked at the finished sketch. She had no idea how it would help. She could imagine Inspector Kitto’s disbelieving look if she produced this ‘evidence’, but she couldn’t afford to care about that. This was about Lawrence and she was determined to do all she could to help him. He was grinning at her now.

  ‘Ok, Loveday. I know you think I’ve lost my marbles.’ The light in his blue eyes was still confident. ‘But you have to look at this with an artist’s eye – and there was something about the body language of that person that made me paint him into the picture.’ He shrugged. ‘That’s all I can say. Call it instinct.’

  Loveday still looked unconvinced and Lawrence went on, ‘The way a person stands, walks, turns, holds his head, the slope of a shoulder – all the clues are there. It’s how we recognise our family and friends if we don’t actually see their faces. Artists capture that all the time.’

   ‘I’m trying to understand, Lawrence, really I am.’

  He held her stare. ‘I think this person,’ he jabbed a finger at the crude sketch, ‘recognised themselves. And if he or she was on the cliffs that day, checking things out…’ He left the sentence unfinished.

  ‘Just a minute, Lawrence.’ Her eyes fell to the sketch. ‘I can’t believe you really think that that this –‘ She jabbed a finger at it. ‘is the murderer.’

  ‘That’s exactly what I’m suggesting. It would explain why my perfectly innocent painting was destroyed. Don’t tell me the police aren’t considering a connection?’ He took her hand. ‘Will you help me, Loveday. All this would sound so much better coming from you. Let’s face it, they’re not likely to believe
me
. They’ll probably think I’ve made the whole thing up.’

  He left her no choice. ‘You know I’ll help,’ she said, smiling. But after the fuss about the keys for the Blue Lady, she guessed she wasn’t at the top of Sam Kitto’s list of favourite people.

Will and Amanda exchanged knowing looks when Sam strode back into the office, his face like fury. ‘He’s had a rollicking,’ said Will, throwing down the pen he was using to check through the reports for the umpteenth time. ‘What do they bloody expect? Do they think we’ve been sitting on our backsides doing nothing for the past week?’

  ‘Of course they do,’ Amanda grimaced. ‘It’s the difference between them upstairs, and us. We do the work, they do the moaning.’

  ‘Aye, but they’re happy enough to take the credit when we do pull rabbits out of the hats,’ Will said, watching Sam’s back retreat into his office.

‘We should have known the Bentines had a boat, though,’ Amanda said, quietly.

Will shrugged. ‘Well, we didn’t, and we all need to take responsibility for that. It’s not the boss’s fault, but he’s the one getting the kicking.’

‘Rank has its privileges,’ Amanda grinned, and Will threw an empty coffee carton at her before striding to the window to scowl down at the little cluster of journalists gathered outside. ‘And now we’ve got this lot breathing down our necks. It’s all we need.’

The tabloids in particular were having a field day with the story, producing one sensational, and Will thought, outrageous front-page after another. The nature of Bentine’s demise had caught the collective imagination of a certain section of the press, and it was not letting go.

But they hadn’t yet found out about the papers he and Sam had uncovered on the boat. This was a much more high profile list of characters than the local names they’d discovered on the computer stick.

These people were big time, high ranking movers and shakers. Two of them were High Court judges; there was a junior cabinet minister, bankers, city bosses – and the owner of a High Street fashion chain who, if Bentine’s dossier was to be believed, was funding his business from his dealings with a crime syndicate.

Any of these people could have killed Bentine, or at least put out a contract on him, Sam told the troops at the early morning briefing. The dossier was a potential bombshell – one for the Met, or maybe even MI5. But he was determined that his team, working as discreetly as possible, should check out alibis for some of the main characters before the information was out of their hands.

  Sam’s head appeared round his office door as he beckoned Will and Amanda. He was by the window when they came in, his arms folded over his grey suit jacket, his expression grim. ‘Sit down.’ 

They did, but Sam remained standing.

  ‘OK. What’ve we got? You first, Will. What did the checks throw up?’

  Will blew out his cheeks.  ‘The one we have to call X was out of the country at the time. Y has a watertight alibi. He was with his mistress.’ He shook his head. ‘They never learn.’

  ‘What about the banker?’

  Will shrugged. ‘Same thing. He has an alibi.’

       ‘What about these, then?’ Sam slid the pair of sinister, threatening notes they had found in Bentine’s box, across the desk.

        Will shrugged. ‘We’re still working on them.’

         ‘Well work harder,’ Sam snapped, turning to Amanda. ‘What about our artist friend, Kemp? He knows more than he’s saying. I’m sure of it.’

  ‘I agree, boss,’ Amanda said. ‘Want me to bring him in again?’

  Sam shook his head. ‘Not yet, but keep digging.’

  The phone rang and Sam snatched at it and barked ‘Yes?’

  ‘Oh dear,’ said the rich Cornish burr of Andrew Charlesworth. ‘Bad time?’

  ‘Sorry, Charlie…didn’t mean to snap.’ He nodded to the others to leave. The anger from having been made to feel like a naughty schoolboy in the Superintendent’s office earlier was still simmering. He had been given an ultimatum.

‘Forty-eight hours, Sam. That’s the best I can do. If you can’t shift this case on in that time then I’ll be taking charge of the investigation myself.’

Superintendent Harry Bolger had spread his hands in a helpless gesture. ‘It’s not up to me, you know that.’ He flicked a thumb at the ceiling. It’s the top brass…never satisfied until the line’s drawn under every bloody case.’

  But Sam knew Harry Bolger was just itching to get his hands on this one.

  ‘Sorry, Charlie. Bad day. What can I do for you?’

‘I heard something over lunch that might interest you. It might be nothing, but there was a bit of a drama at the museum earlier…concerning that artist chap you had in for questioning.

  ‘Lawrence Kemp?’ Sam sat up.

  ‘That’s the one…something to do with that painting that got trashed.’

  ‘What about it Charlie?’

  ‘Don’t know, really, but according to Laura, he got very excited…insisted on calling some journalist he knows.’

  ‘Not Loveday Ross?’ Sam’s jaw tightened. Everywhere he turned it seemed that Loveday was there before him. She was beginning to set his teeth on edge.

  ‘That’s the name. She’s a friend of Laura’s actually. Anyway, she came round and there were some heated discussions about the painting. It might be something, Sam. I don’t know. I’ll leave you to it. By the way, have you decided about the wedding yet?’

  ‘Wedding?’

  ‘You’ve forgotten, you bugger…the wedding…my wedding? Ring any bells?’

  ‘Oh yes…no I hadn’t forgotten,’ Sam lied. ‘I’ll be there.’

  ‘You better be. You’re one of the witnesses.’

   ‘I’ll be there, Charlie. Don’t worry. But his mind was on Loveday Ross. What was she up to now?’

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Loveday’s head was spinning as she walked back to her office. Even if Lawrence’s theory that he might have captured Bentine’s killer on canvas was a cockeyed one, surely it must prove his innocence? No guilty man would come up with a story like that and expect to be taken seriously…would he?

The streets were busier now and she bit her lip as she hurried on, trying to make sense of what she’d just heard. Surely it proved he’d had nothing to do with Bentine’s murder?  For all his artistic talent, Lawrence wasn’t devious enough to make up a story like that…was he? She shook her head, oblivious to the looks she was attracting from passing strangers, angry now with herself for harbouring even a second’s doubt. No…she’d been right all along, and Lawrence had absolutely nothing to do with this business.

As she reached the end of River Street something made her glance back, and she caught sight of a figure, head bowed, turning quickly away from her. She stopped, frowning. She hadn’t seen the face, but there was something…the body language Lawrence had been talking about perhaps? And then she knew what it was she had recognised. The hat! The person was wearing a hat exactly like the one Lawrence had drawn for her.

She narrowed her eyes, scanning the crowd, seeking out the figure that had caught her attention. It was weaving a way through the throng of shoppers, too far ahead to be sure if it was a man or woman, but judging by the height and dress, Loveday thought it was a man.

On impulse she hurried after him, followed as he turned along one of the narrow passages between the shops and into busy King Street. He was moving quickly, extending the gap between them. Did he know he was being followed? By the time she had reached the Coinage Hall she’d lost him. She stopped, staring back through the crowds. What was she doing? Her imagination was playing tricks on her. She suddenly felt foolish.

Loveday was on the point of turning back to her office when she caught sight of a face she really did recognise. ‘Inspector Kitto,’ she called across the street. ‘I was coming to see you.’

  ‘About what?’ he called back, striding towards her.

  The pavement was crowded and they were beginning to attract attention. ‘We can’t talk here. Can we go back to the police station?’

  ‘I’ve a better idea,’ Sam said, steering her towards the pub.

Loveday found an empty table up at the back while Sam went to the bar to order their drinks – a pint of ale for him and a glass of house white for her. ‘I’ve ordered a couple of sandwiches,’ he said. ‘Hope you like cheese and pickle.

  He put down their drinks and slid into the bench seat opposite, holding her gaze for a split second, before saying, ‘Well, what is it you have to tell me?’

  Loveday bit her lip, unsure where to start. She looked up, meeting his expectant stare. She suddenly felt embarrassed. He was waiting for her to reveal some vital piece of information, but what did she have?

He raised an eyebrow, waiting for her to begin.

  ‘Ok…maybe it’s nothing,’ she started, ‘…but I promised Lawrence I would pass this on.’  Loveday spent the next five minutes recounting Lawrence’s theory about the figure he had painted into his vandalised picture of the Borlase cliff top.

Sam studied her as she spoke, but his expression remained impassive. Charlie had fired his interest when he’d told him about the museum incident. It could have been the breakthrough they needed. But this was nothing more than fanciful, the product of an over active imagination. He’d been hoping for more.

  Loveday saw his eyebrows descend into a frown as she spoke. Her story wasn’t impressing him. Determined not to be put off, she continued. ‘OK, I know it sounds far fetched, but there could be something in it…couldn’t there?’

Sam sighed and spread his hands,  ‘I’m sorry, Loveday, but I can see nothing of any consequence here.’

  ‘Well, look at this,’ Loveday pulled the sketch from her bag. ‘Lawrence asked me to show you this.’ She offered the sketchbook across the table and Sam took it and flicked through the pages.

  ‘That’s the one,’ Loveday said, stopping him at the Borlase scene. She pointed. ‘That’s the figure he’s talking about.’

  Sam glanced at the pencil sketch and shrugged. ‘Could be anybody,’ he said, ‘…man or woman.’

  ‘Well, yes, but if it really was the murderer – and he thought he could have been identified in the painting - then it might make sense of the vandalism, don’t you think?’ She paused to gauge his reaction. He wasn’t buying any of it. ‘All right, I can see what you’re thinking,’ she said, sighing.

His eyes flickered over her and Loveday wondered if he was assessing her sanity. But she wasn’t going to back down now. She jabbed a finger at Lawrence’s sketch.  ‘Look more closely.’ She pointed to the cap. It’s a bit unusual, don’t you think?’

Sam shrugged. ‘It’s a cap. What’s unusual about it?’

The barman brought their sandwiches and left them on the table. Loveday sat back, waiting until he was out of earshot again. ‘How many hats like that have you seen about Cornwall recently, Inspector? It’s sixties retro…straight out of an old John Lennon movie.’

  ‘If you say so,’ he said. But he did take a second look and maybe she was right. The shape was distinctive.

  Loveday’s attention had shifted to the sandwiches. She lifted one and examined it suspiciously before biting into it. Cheese was not her favourite food, but it was sharp and tasty – and she was hungry.

  Sam smiled to himself as he watched her attack the snack with gusto, before taking an elegant pinky to brush away the crumbs at the side of her mouth.

  ‘Very nice,’ she said, ‘Thank you. I was starving.’

  She pushed her plate away and glanced up at him. ‘Still not convinced, are you, Inspector?’ She didn’t wait for an answer. ‘The thing is…I thought I saw that hat just before we bumped into each other.’

  She met his eyes. ‘You see, Lawrence has this theory about body language and how we all recognise the people we know, even if we don’t actually see their faces.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘I know this is going to sound weird, but I think I recognised somebody earlier. It was just like Lawrence said…something about the slope of the shoulders, how he held his head.’

  ‘So who was it?’

  ‘That’s just it. I’m not sure…but it was somebody I know, I’m certain of it.’ She tapped Lawrence’s sketch with her finger again. ‘…
And,
he was wearing that hat.’ She glanced at Sam’s face hoping for a flicker of interest, but saw none. ‘I tried to follow him, but he was too quick for me. And then you appeared.’

  Sam rolled his eyes.

  ‘You think I’ve lost my marbles, don’t you…you’re probably right. It does sound crazy.’

  ‘I didn’t say that,’ Sam sighed. ‘It’s far fetched, certainly…and, well, not very likely.’ He ran a finger up the side of his glass and drew a line in the condensation. ‘But we won’t discount it.’

  He wasn’t in a position to discount anything at the moment…not even a cockeyed theory like this one. He emptied his glass and checked his watch.

  ‘Yes I know. I have to get back too,’ Loveday said, anticipating what he was going to say. ‘But,’ she grimaced, unsure if she should go on. Her suspicions about Magdalene would probably be received as even more far out. But she was here now, so she would tell him.

He raised an eyebrow, and Loveday noticed how intense his dark his eyes were.

‘I’m not saying this is true, but…well, it’s about Magdalene Bentine.’

  Sam’s shoulders squared. ‘You have something to tell me about Mrs Bentine?’

  ‘Well, yes, and no,’ she hedged, wondering how wise she had been to start this. But now that she had, there was no going back. She straightened her back and looked directly at Kitto.

  ‘I think she was having and affair…with a vicar…the Rev Martin Foyle.’ She sat back and waited for his reaction.

  ‘You know this for a fact, do you?’

  ‘Not exactly a fact, no, it’s just a theory at the moment.’

  Sam’s brow furrowed and he gave her one of his dark looks. ‘Another of your theories, Miss Ross?’

‘I know,’ Loveday muttered, staring into the dregs of her wine. ‘I shouldn’t have started this. Just forget I spoke.’

  She stood up to leave, but Sam touched her arm. There was no sign of a smile, but his voice was less mocking. ‘Why don’t you sit down and finish your story?’ he said.

  Loveday did, and toyed with the stem of her glass. ‘The affair is just a gut feeling.’ She smiled up at him. ‘But I can usually trust my instinct on these things. Someone rang Magdalene on her mobile the day Cassie and I were at her house – and she was pretty quick to cover it up, but not before I had seen the name that came up on the monitor. It was Martin.’

‘If Mrs Bentine is having an affair with her vicar then they won’t want to be shouting about it,’ said Sam.

  ‘Exactly. But if her husband found out and threatened to expose them – ‘ Loveday’s unfinished sentence ended in a shrug.

  And for the first time that day, Sam did smile. It crinkled the corners of his eyes and made them twinkle.

  ‘You think Magdalene and the vicar killed Paul Bentine to shut him up?’ he said.

  Loveday frowned. ‘Not necessarily…but they could have.’

  Sam shook his head, but he was still grinning. ‘I’ll give you this much, Loveday Ross. You’re persistent.’

  ‘I’m a journalist,’ she said. ‘Persistence in my profession is an admirable quality.’

  It was the wrong thing to say. Sam didn’t need reminding that she was a journalist. His mood changed instantly. Just for a few seconds she could have believed they were friends. But the policeman was back. He stood up.

  ‘Sorry. I really do have to get back to the station. It was an interesting conversation, Miss Ross.’ He didn’t say ‘We should do it again some time.’

  Loveday watched him leave, ducking his head to exit the low door. She drained her glass and gathered up her things.

  But Sam didn’t go back to the office. Outside in the street he turned the other way and headed instead for the museum. Whatever had been going on there he would have to find out for himself. He knew Laura Bennington only slightly, but as he was soon to be a witness at her and Charlie’s wedding, it would do no harm to renew the acquaintance

    There was no sign of her as he walked into the reception area. Until recently the space had been wasted, used only to display a few posters. Now it housed a cafeteria whose coffee and home baking was popular with tourists and locals alike. His nose twitched at the coffee aromas. A woman, Sam estimated to be in her late forties, was sitting at the reception desk. She lifted her head and smiled as he approached. He produced his warrant card and asked for Laura.

  The woman’s previous composure slipped for an instant and she looked flustered. Why did people feel uneasy around the police?  She lifted the phone and told the person at the other end that he was waiting.

  ‘Miss Bennington will be right down,’ she said.

  Laura appeared on cue. ‘Inspector Kitto…Sam,’ she smiled, extending her hand in greeting. She looked over at the coffee area. ‘Can I get you a drink?’

  Sam nodded his thanks and Laura signaled to the woman at the coffee machine, who was settling back to hang on to their every word.

  They sat at a table out of earshot. ‘How can I help?’

  ‘I understand there was some kind of incident this morning…concerning Lawrence Kemp and his painting?’

  ‘Ah. I see. Andrew told you.’

  Sam had to think for a moment to figure out who Andrew was. Like the others at the station, he only knew him as Charlie. Their coffees arrived and they thanked the assistant. Laura stirred her cup, her expression thoughtful. ‘Yes,’ she said quietly, ‘…he got quite excited about something in the painting. To be honest. I didn’t really understand what he was talking about. Loveday could probably tell you more.’ She looked up at him. ‘I’m sorry. Loveday Ross…she’s a friend of his. Lawrence called her.’

  Sam nodded. ‘I know Miss Ross.’ He drained his cup. ‘In fact, I’ve already spoken to her.’

  ‘You’ll know more than me then.’ Laura said.

  As she spoke Sam was looking round the area. He nodded towards the CCTV cameras. He’d spotted them as soon as he walked into the museum.

  ‘Do you keep all the footage?’

    ‘Only for a few weeks, then we record over it.’ She smiled. ‘Budgets, you know.’

  ‘But you would still have the footage for the day Kemp’s painting was vandalised?’

  She shook her head. ‘The other officers asked that at the time. We don’t have cameras covering the local artists’ exhibitions. So there’s nothing of the actual vandalism on tape I’m afraid.’

  His team had investigated the attack on Kemp’s painting, but at the time they had been more interested in the artist who had painted it. He remembered Amanda Fox reporting that there was no CCTV footage covering the section of the museum where the local artists’ work was displayed. It had been reasoned, she explained, that the museum, being short of cash, had concentrated their resources on the areas displaying the irreplaceable and valuable artifacts. Though no doubt the works of some of these local artists would also merit that description in years to come.