Betrayed in Cornwall (4 page)

‘Oh, no. How awful,’ Evelyn said. ‘And it’s so close to us.’

Rose nodded. ‘It happens more often than you’d believe. Tourists don’t understand the dangers of coastal walks.’ But it seemed odd. Parts of the road were fenced and it had not been raining to make the narrow paths slippery. And it wasn’t like a cliff walk, far from it. She decided not to think about it because this was her night. There would be further details in the press in the morning.

At seven they climbed into the taxi Rose had booked and made their way to the gallery in Penzance. Geoff Carter and his assistant were already there and welcomed them with glasses of wine. The door was open but there was no draught to alleviate the stuffiness of the hot summer evening.

Geoff’s eyebrows arched in surprise. Rose Trevelyan had been hiding her talents in more than one direction. But he did not comment upon her appearance. ‘What do you think?’ he said as he took her arm and led her around.

‘I can’t believe it, Geoff. They look so much better now they’re hung.’

‘They always do. And good framing goes a long way and that’s down to you.’

Unsure if he was being patronising, Rose was still aware that his expertise in knowing which paintings to place adjacent to one another made all the difference.

Her father was standing back from one of them stroking his
chin thoughtfully. He beckoned to his wife. ‘Well, Evelyn? What about it?’

‘Yes.’ She nodded. ‘Yes, definitely. We’ll have it.’

‘You can’t,’ Rose gasped, horrified. ‘I didn’t invite you here just so you’d buy one. I’ll paint you one for free, you know that.’

Geoff watched with amusement. He didn’t know quite what to make of Rose, although he recognised that she could paint. ‘It might be a good investment,’ he suggested.

‘You’re bound to say that. You’re on commission,’ Rose retorted.

He laughed loudly whilst her parents glanced at one another in consternation.

‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be rude. I was shocked, that’s all,’ Rose apologised.

‘Mr Carter, we’d be very grateful if you’d put one of your red stickers on this one.’

Rose now stared at her father. He had always claimed to know absolutely nothing about art, but he obviously knew a little because that was the way it was done. A red circle would be stuck on a picture which had been sold but it would remain on the wall until after the exhibition had closed. Before she could protest further, people began to arrive. Barry Rowe was the first. He had on a grey suit which had seen better days and his tie was slightly askew. On his face was the permanently harassed expression which was no indication of how he actually felt.

‘Rosie, I’m so proud of you,’ he said as he kissed her cheek. ‘And it’s a pleasure to see you both again,’ he added, addressing her parents. Geoff’s young female assistant handed him a glass of wine. She had been introduced as Cassandra. Behind Barry came Trevor and Laura, both of them smiling, determined that Rose should not miss David too badly.

Before long Rose was surrounded by her family and friends. The noise built up and she passed between small groups either in conversation or admiring her work. Her face was flushed with pleasure, she could hardly believe it was all happening.
Feeling hot, she went to wash her hands in the small kitchen. When she returned to the gallery there were even more people there, including Jack Pearce who seemed to avoid catching her eye. Tall, dark and swarthy, he was, Rose realised, by far the best-looking man in the room. What she felt for him was difficult to define. He still made her skin tingle when he came near her and she enjoyed his company but she had learned that attraction was not the same thing as love. Geoff Carter was watching their interaction with an enigmatic smirk. Rose ignored him and turned to speak to Jack. ‘I’m glad you could make it,’ she said.

‘I told you I’d be here. I really had no idea you were this good, Rose.’ He studied her face. She was happy, far too happy to have heard that the body found on the rocks was that of Joe Chynoweth. The name may not have been broadcast, but word spread rapidly in West Penwith. He would not spoil her evening by telling her: she would find out soon enough.

‘Thank you,’ she answered with a wry smile. ‘Now let me introduce you to my parents.’ She realised by the way her mother eyed him up and down that she was surprised that her daughter had turned away such a good thing. ‘And this is Geoff.’ He had joined them, curious to know who the man was who obviously meant something to Rose.

Jack shook his hand. Geoff Carter was an inch shorter than he was, and not in the least bohemian as some of Rose’s St Ives acquaintances were. His brown hair was conventionally styled and his clothes were well cut. Even on such a warm evening he wore a lightweight jacket over his shirt and trousers. Jack was aware that men had different views from women when it came to looks but he put Geoff in the top half of the type who would appeal to the opposite sex. So this was the man Rose had talked of with such enthusiasm. He hoped it was only because he was exhibiting her paintings.

‘Hi.’ A new voice interrupted them.

‘Hello, Maddy.’ Jack grinned. This was more his idea of an artist, although, in fact, Maddy was a potter. She also produced simple wooden artifacts and fancy needlework. These goods she sold from her small shop in St Ives. Not boots tonight, he
noticed, but open sandals. Her drop-waisted lavender dress almost reached her ankles and was laced down the front. Her wild hair was held in a bunch at one side of her head. The variety of Rose’s friends amazed him but said an awful lot about Rose herself.

He began to enjoy himself, relaxing for once, because he was not usually much of a socialiser. Rose was chatting to Maddy. Her smile broadened as she hugged her friend but he had no idea why. It must be good news. Hopefully it would help counteract the bad. He went to speak to Trevor and Laura, with whom he had been at school. Everyone present might have listened to or watched the local news, but Jack seemed to be the only one in the room who knew the identity of the dead man, a man who was known and liked by most of them. It surprised him. But how soon would it be before Rose realised that none of the Chynoweths had turned up?

‘Oh, Maddy, that’s wonderful news, it’s really made my day,’ Rose said when Maddy had imparted her news in full. Maddy, through circumstances not of her own making, had been forced to have adopted the illegitimate child she had had as a young girl. It had warped her view of life and made her miserable. Now, after eighteen years, the thing that she had hoped and waited for had happened. The daughter she had always thought of as Annie, but who was in fact called Julie, had made contact via the adoption agency and wanted to meet her natural mother.

‘She asked if we can meet on neutral ground,’ Maddy explained. ‘I can’t blame her, she’s no idea what to expect. The letter only came yesterday but I knew your parents were arriving so I didn’t ring right away. Anyway, you must circulate. I’ll amuse Barry.’

Everyone was in conversation. Jack was with Trevor and Laura but he looked uncomfortable. Of course, she thought, they found a body. Even if the death was, as the news suggested, accidental, there would still be police involvement. Rose scanned the room, looking for Etta. She asked several people if they’d seen her, but each one answered in the negative. ‘I’ll ring her. Maybe she’s forgotten the time,’ she said to Laura.

‘Don’t.’ Jack grabbed her arm. His expression was grim. ‘Leave it for tonight, Rose.’ He was aware that Trevor, Laura and Rose were staring at him, that they wanted an explanation, but he could not give them one, not yet.

Rose felt a sense of doom. Something had happened to Sarah. She had promised to speak to the girl but had left it too late. Poor Etta, her worst fears had come true.

Jack thanked Rose for inviting him and left. Other people began to follow suit.

‘What was all that about?’ Laura said, watching Jack’s retreating back.

‘I don’t know for certain, but Etta’s been having a few problems with Sarah.’

‘She ought to get Joe to sort her out. He’s no fool.’ Trevor’s admiration was apparent in his voice. ‘Come on, Laura, we’d better go. Rose said they’ve got a meal booked at nine thirty.’

By the time she and her parents left, four paintings had a red sticker on them. ‘I can’t believe it. Real money at last,’ Rose said as she turned to wave to Geoff who had stayed to lock up.

‘You deserve it,’ Evelyn commented firmly as they headed down the road towards the Promenade and the Queen’s Hotel where Arthur had booked a table for dinner.

Rose forgot about Etta and Jack’s serious demeanour until they were strolling home. The sky was clear, each constellation perfectly visible, and the new moon showed thinly with a slight haze outlining it. The tide was way out and so smooth not a ripple showed. Ahead were the lights of Newlyn, which looked Continental in the way the houses were grouped in tiers up the side of the bay. Why didn’t he want me to talk to Etta? Rose wondered. She’s my friend, she might’ve been glad of someone to confide in. Could Sarah have been arrested? But something more than that was bothering Jack, something he didn’t want me to know. Laura and Trevor were none the wiser. No doubt they would all find out soon enough.

All three were ready for bed by the time they reached Newlyn. They had a long day ahead tomorrow: shopping and lunch in Truro, and a concert at St John’s Hall in Penzance in the evening. Rose had bought the tickets in advance. It would
be a treat for her parents, they always enjoyed listening to one of the many local male voice choirs.

Brushing her hair until it crackled Rose smiled at the memory of Geoff Carter’s astonished expression when she had walked into the gallery. He might not have spoken but she had read the admiration in his eyes. Life was ironic. It really was all or nothing. On several occasions since David’s death she had been the object of more than one man’s attention. But they never appeared singly. That evening she had been in the same room as two definite suitors and one possible admirer. Recalling the paintings which had sold, Rose shook her head. It was too good to be true. It had been a wonderful evening and a good beginning. She hoped there’d be more sales before the end of the two-week exhibition.

From her bedroom window she took her last ritualistic look at the bay and hoped that whatever trouble Sarah was in, Etta, with Rose’s help, would be able to sort it out.

Sarah, frightened and miserable herself, had not known how to deal with her mother’s misery. She had never witnessed such overwhelming grief before, but neither had she been in a situation which warranted it. Etta had coped until their guests returned but once she had explained what had happened and they had departed, full of sympathy and understanding, she had gone to pieces. Around tea-time Sarah knew that help was required. Sensibly, she decided to telephone their GP who called in after surgery had finished and prescribed some mild tranquillisers, enough to last for only a couple of days.

Etta was sleeping now, her face a little less ravaged in repose. Sarah wished she could sleep herself. Downstairs in the unusually quiet house she felt lonely and unloved. Sometime recently she had realised that although she saw Roz and Amy frequently, they were acquaintances rather than friends. When
she and Roz had come across that embarrassing and sickening scene at St Ives, Roz had found it amusing; she had no idea of the pain it had caused Sarah. Joe had been her only friend. How she wished she had been nicer to him. His affectionate teasing had been repaid with silence and it was too late now to make amends. And there was also the question of what she had seen the previous night and whether it meant anything. She could not confide in her mother, they had grown too far apart for that. But did she have the nerve to speak to Rose Trevelyan, to ask the advice of a woman she trusted? Before she could decide, the telephone rang. Sarah answered it quickly, hoping she had got there before the low but insistent burring woke her mother. It was an inquiry regarding a booking for later in the year.

Sarah explained why Etta could not come to the phone. She made a note of the name and telephone number and promised to pass on a message. ‘I’m not sure when we’ll be doing bed and breakfast again, but we’ll let you know either way.’ She was amazed at how adult and calm she had sounded, but someone had to take responsibility for their lives.

The woman who had rung to make the reservation had expressed her sympathy, asking Sarah to pass it on to Mrs Chynoweth. It was strange the way in which a contemporary of her mother had ignored her own grief. She had been treated as though the young were invulnerable, immune from pain, or perhaps it was simply that the woman could not find the right words to say to someone of her age.

Thursday night replayed itself in Sarah’s head. She had not been mistaken and if Amy had heard her gasp, she had said nothing. And would she be able to bring herself to lie about the rest of that evening if the police questioned her? They really must believe Joe’s death was an accident as they had not spoken to her at all. She had imagined they would have wanted to know where she was at the very least, and possibly who his friends were. And if she was right, just what relevance did it have? I will speak to Rose, she decided, then suddenly remembered that she would not be at home because it was the opening night of her exhibition and she would be at the gallery in the
company of her parents and friends. Tears filled her eyes. She and Etta and Joe should have been there too. In the morning, then. I’ll go and see Rose first thing, she thought, aware of her desperate need to confide in somebody.

Switching on the television in the hope that it would distract her from memories of her brother, she sat down to watch it. It was no use. The false canned laughter made a mockery of her raw feelings. She turned it off again and sobbed, wiping her tears with her bare arm as they dampened the hair which hung over her face. He was her half-brother but it had made no difference. To Sarah he had been someone special and he had always been protective of her. How was it possible that she would never hear his laughter or his cheerful banter again? How she wished she had been nicer to him upon his return. She had no idea why she behaved badly and she was filled with self-loathing. ‘There isn’t a God,’ she said through clenched teeth. ‘There just isn’t a God.’ And soon there would be the funeral to face. It would be the first one she had ever attended. When Ed, the man she could just recall as her father, had died, she had been five years old and Etta had considered her too young to be present, and all her grandparents were still alive. Her maternal set were arriving on Sunday; they had been on holiday in France and, thanks to her mother’s good memory, the police had been able to track them down at their hotel. They would be devastated.

Joe had been loved by her own father’s parents as if he had been their natural, rather than step-grandson. They lived in Scotland and had telephoned to say they would come down and stay until the funeral. From one end of Britain to the other – it was a long journey for the elderly couple to make. No one knew where Joe’s real father was, but as he had not known of the child’s existence Etta saw no reason to try to find him now.

I’d have to know, Sarah thought. If it was the other way around and my mother had had me illegitimately, I’d have to try to find my real father. But Joe had shown no curiosity as to what sort of man he was or where he might be living, he had simply accepted Etta’s explanation of the facts of his conception and birth and had left it at that.

It was odd that the man was French and that two of her grandparents were in France at the time of Joe’s death. Sarah sat on the sofa with her eyes closed and built a fantasy around them accidentally meeting the Frenchman by whom her mother had had a child and them bringing him back to Cornwall for his son’s funeral where he would fall in love with Etta and somehow make them both happy again. Better fantasy than the reality of what she might have to face.

Jack Pearce left it until Saturday morning before speaking to Trevor and Laura officially. At Rose’s viewing he had refrained from mentioning what had happened because Laura was unable to disguise her feelings and Rose would have wheedled it out of her.

When he arrived at the house they were sitting at the breakfast table, plates and mugs in front of them, whilst they each read a section of the paper. But it was not the
Western Morning News
in which the dead man had now been named. ‘Jack, come in,’ Laura said, surprised. ‘I’ve just made coffee. Want some?’ He nodded. ‘What is it?’ she asked as she poured. Something had been on his mind last night. It seemed she was about to find out what.

‘I expect you heard that a body was found yesterday –’

‘Yes. It was on the news,’ she interrupted. ‘Oh, God. It’s someone we know.’

Trevor looked up, several frown lines wrinkled his brow.

‘I’m sorry, Laura, it was Joe Chynoweth.’ He had hoped they already knew, that he would not have to break it to them.

‘Joe?’ Trevor’s eyes, set close together, narrowed. ‘They said it was an accident. If so, why are you here?’

‘Because there are certain other circumstances which need investigation.’

‘For Christ’s sake, Jack. How long have we known each other? Cut the jargon and get on with it.’

‘Joe was found in possession of drugs.’

‘Not Joe. Never. Don’t be a fool as well as a pompous bastard.’

‘I don’t like having to do this,’ he said as Laura turned to hand him his coffee. He had not even given them time to let the news sink in. Their joint shock was obvious. ‘Obviously I know you well enough not to imagine you were involved in the boy’s death, but the way the drugs problem is escalating I need to ask you certain questions.’

‘Fire away,’ Trevor said, his eyes glittering with anger.

Laura, disgusted with her childhood friend, slammed his mug on the table. Its contents slopped over the rim. ‘Yes, fire away, Jack. Didn’t you realise Trevor’s a drugs baron? That’s why we live the way we do.’ She waved an arm to encompass the kitchen which was in need of decoration and the mismatched china on the table.

‘Laura, please. I said I hate doing this but I came myself rather than send a couple of uniforms.’

She sat down and chewed at her lip. Yes, she was angry with Jack but she was more upset than she realised at Joe’s death. And he had had so much to live for.

‘Did you know or even suspect what he might have been doing?’

‘No. And I still don’t believe it. You must’ve made a mistake. The police aren’t infallible.’ It was Laura who spoke. She paused. ‘But you don’t know yet if he was taking them, do you? You can’t possibly know until after the post-mortem.’

‘No, not for certain. Look, I have to ask, have you ever had any drugs on board?’ he said, addressing Trevor.

‘For Christ’s sake, Jack, you know Billy doesn’t even allow drink on a trip. And to save your time, the answer to almost anything you’re going to ask me will be no. You should be out there finding out who supplied him, if they did, which I don’t believe for one second, but if it should turn out to be the case it was no one of my acquaintance.’

Jack knew that Trevor was furious and that he was also right, but it would be like searching for the proverbial needle in a haystack. He finished his coffee and left. Much as he did not want to, he would have a quick word with Billy Cadogan and Jan Trevorrah and leave it at that. Joe’s death must surely have been accidental but it was unlikely they would discover anything from the other two men.
If Joe had confided in anyone it was more likely to be this man. Jack knew that most of what he was asking was superfluous, that Billy and his crew were extremely unlikely to have been involved, but he supposed he’d hoped for some sort of information, the smallest hint, maybe, as to any contacts Joe may have had. There were few secrets in West Penwith, however, but this time there seemed none to be found.

Mrs Trevorrah answered the door in a thigh-length silky dressing-gown which she was hastily knotting around the middle. She was in her early twenties and had beautiful slanting eyes which altered an otherwise plain face. She looked as if she had just got out of bed because her hair was tangled and she yawned behind her hand. Jack thought lying in bed was an awful waste of a beautiful day until her husband appeared, wearing only narrow underpants. He realised what he had interrupted, which, after his interview, might not be resumed. This was an even worse waste in his opinion. But the job was the job.

‘Jan Trevorrah? I’m Inspector Pearce, Devon and Cornwall police. Sorry to intrude, but I’d like to ask you a few questions.’ They were standing in the hallway. No one attempted to invite him anywhere else and Jack guessed that they were anxious to get back to their Saturday morning entertainment. ‘Can you tell me anything about Joe Chynoweth?’

‘Such as?’

‘What sort of man was he?’

‘Was. Yes. Billy phoned, that’s how I know. I still can’t believe it.’

‘Mr Trevorrah?’

‘Yeah. Sorry. Good fisherman. Kept to the rules. Decent bloke to have on board or to have a drink with, but he never went too far, just a few pints now and then. But I’d never have guessed he was a user. Never in a hundred years. Mind you, I’ve only known him about eighteen months, since the time I started working with Billy. If you want any more than that you’ll have to ask Rose.’

‘Rose? What’s she got to do with it?’

Jan looked startled. ‘There’s no need to be rude. I thought you lot went in for dealing with the public tactfully these days.’

‘I apologise.’ Jack was lost for words. Did Rose know these people too?

‘Tell him, Rose. You went to school with him.’

Jack turned to face Trevorrah’s wife. How stupid of him. There wasn’t only one woman in the world with that name, especially in this particular part of the world.

‘We were in the same class. He worked hard but he was never what you’d call a swot. I didn’t know him that well really, but he seemed nice enough and he kept out of trouble, not like some, and everyone seemed to like him. I heard he could’ve gone to university if he wanted.’ She shrugged and pulled her robe tightly around her body. ‘We didn’t really mix so I can’t tell you no more than that.’

‘Thank you. I won’t take up any more of your time then.’ Jack left with a growing feeling of disquiet. Something was wrong here. From everyone they had spoken to they had heard the same story: Joe Chynoweth was a likeable, honest young man. Hopefully, by the time he got to Camborne the results from the fingerprints taken from the small plastic packet would be waiting.

Ten thirty; still most of the day ahead of him when he arrived at his desk, only to learn that the results he had been waiting for were negative. Partial prints had been lifted from the packet containing the heroin but they were not clear enough to be matched to Joe’s or to anyone else’s.

Jack read the scene-of-crime report. It added little to what had been obvious at the time. Joe had fallen through the bushes, leaving a trail of broken twigs. He had landed on the concrete at the base of the cliff, broken his neck on impact and continued to roll over the edge on to the rocks and shingle, sustaining other minor injuries on the way. Initially his death had appeared to be accidental, as, in reality, it still did. But closer investigation revealed there had been signs in the scuff marks on the dry soil that a second person, possibly even two, might have been present. Had Joe gone to meet a supplier and, drunk, or high already, slipped? If so, had whoever this man or men
were, pushed him over the side? If they were involved with drugs they would not hang around to answer any questions if it had been an accident. Or was it more sinister than that? Had Joe refused to part with money and been killed?

Jack shook his head. He was beginning to accept that Joe was not a user – the post-mortem would confirm this or otherwise – but was it possible he had been a pusher? He had lived at home with his mother and sister and earned a good living fishing. He was not extravagant and could therefore have saved enough to begin buying the stuff. After that the profits would have taken care of the rest.

Does Rose know yet? he wondered. Surely she must, Laura would have rung her immediately after his visit.

Before he could ring her himself an outside call was put through to him. It was a man who called himself Douggie, although Jack knew that was not his real name. He was an informer, a man who had once served time because of being informed upon and who had now turned the tables. His information, picked up in pubs, was not always accurate but had, occasionally, proved useful. He said he wanted to meet Jack as soon as possible.