Snapped in Cornwall (10 page)

‘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.’

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 did 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.