Snapped in Cornwall (7 page)

‘Waiting?’ It was an odd choice of words. She studied Paul. Straight-nosed, thin-lipped, with soft greyish-blue eyes which did not reflect whatever he might be feeling. His skin was waxen and his hands shook. He was difficult to age but assuming Dennis and Gabrielle were in their early fifties he was probably between twenty-five and thirty.

‘Having seen you can never tell what’s around the next corner, we thought we might as well go ahead.’

Paul seemed unable to refer to his mother or her death but at least he was making an effort to talk.

‘Where will you live?’

‘In London. Our work’s there and it wouldn’t suit us down here. It’s too quiet.’

From that statement Rose thought Gabrielle might have left the house to her son rather than her husband.

‘As long as Anna’s happy, that’s all I care about.’ For a second there was a flicker of enthusiasm in Paul’s manner. It did not last.

‘And you, Dennis? Have you made any plans?’ Rose was bored with treading around the subject. She had been asked here yet neither man seemed to have noticed she had actually arrived. Perhaps, she thought, Dennis, having been unable to speak to Paul himself, hoped she would break the ice. In which case Gabrielle’s name could no longer be ignored. ‘I know it’s early days yet, but what will you do with Gabrielle’s house?’

‘I don’t know.’ He smiled wanly. ‘I’m still coming to terms with her not being here. There are problems with my company at the moment, it may be that I’ll decide to live here.’

‘But you …’ Paul stopped. There was a tinge of colour across his sharp cheekbones.

His father misunderstood him. ‘I wouldn’t miss London. I’ve had my share of the rat-race. If I could get fixed up with something, a lower salary wouldn’t bother me. If not,’ he wiped his mouth with his serviette, ‘well, I’d have to sell and find something smaller. Something like your house, Rose.’

Paul stood up and went over to the table against the wall upon which Doreen had placed cheese, a jug of celery and a basket of biscuits. Rose saw his actions were to hide his feelings, to prevent him saying something he might regret, rather than because he was hungry.

She was right. Paul ate a cube of cheese, then crumbled the biscuit. He filled the silence by saying, ‘It might not be yours to sell.’

‘What?’

‘My mother mentioned to Anna that she might leave us the house.’

Dennis’s head jerked up. There was genuine fear in his face. ‘When did she tell her that?’

‘I’m not sure. Anna only mentioned it recently. It’s not a problem, is it?’

Dennis could not believe Gabrielle would have changed her will without telling him. He had to remind himself of Maggie and the things he had not told his wife. ‘Paul, you might as well know, it looks as if I’ll be made redundant.’

‘My God.’ He paused. ‘But you’ve still got the flat, that’s worth a bit, and they’ll pay you off, they’ll have to, you’ve been there years.’

Rose looked from Dennis to Paul, the one so defeated, the other without sympathy. Here was another reason to be grateful she was childless. Paul’s parents had brought him up and had, presumably, done what they thought was best for him. Now, when his father most needed support, he showed only callousness. Rose’s elbows were on the table, her fingers steepled. Her hands jerked and she knocked her knife to the floor with a clatter. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, bending down to pick it up. No, she said silently. No, it can’t be. ‘It was a lovely meal. I really must go, Dennis.’

He did not try to persuade her to stay longer. Both men stood as she got up; Dennis saw her to the Mini, waited until he was sure it had started, then returned to the house without waving.

Rose was vaguely aware of a light coming from the incident van and the faint purr of a telephone ringing. Although she knew little of police procedure, it crossed her mind that their conversation might have been recorded. So keep out of it, she told herself.

Winding down the window because her face felt hot Rose realised she must be mad to have imagined that Paul had killed his mother in order to inherit, even if his wedding plans had been brought forward. She tried to remember Anna and her first impressions of her, but they had hardly spoken and it would be unfair to judge her when she was in the middle of a row with Paul. Anna was tall and slim and pretty, her straight
dark hair cut in a perfect bob, and she knew how to dress, but for some reason Rose did not think she was the type of woman men would kill for. Even from that brief meeting she sensed she lacked personality. However, her views were unimportant, Paul had admitted he would do anything to make Anna happy.

Rose slowed and pulled into a wide spot in the otherwise narrow lane. A car was approaching, headlights on full beam. It did not dawn on her until later that its only destination could be the Miltons’ house.

A dim light filtered into the room through the unlined curtains. Rose had slept well and was comfortable in the double bed, the duvet enveloping her warmly. It had taken a second death to enable her to survive the anniversary of David’s without enduring several days of depression. She hated herself at such times but listing all the good things in her life did not help and she gave in to the forces which made it seem each day was grey even when the sun was shining.

She heard the first drops of rain pattering on the window and decided to make coffee and bring it back to bed. I’ll take the day off, she thought, read and slop around. I might even light a fire later.

But it was not to be. As she waited for the kettle to boil there was a tap on the window of the kitchen door. She opened it and a draught scattered the sheets of paper upon which she had jotted some notes the previous evening. Laura stood inside the door, her curls bejewelled with raindrops, her clothes dripping water on to the floor and an expression of abject misery on her face.

‘Whatever’s the matter?’

‘Oh, Rose.’ The tears came suddenly and rolled down her face. ‘It’s Trevor,’ she said.

‘Trevor?’

Rose froze. Had there been an accident? Had his boat gone down?

‘We can’t stop rowing. Every time he comes home I try so hard to make everything right, nice meals, you know. It’s partly my fault, he can’t say anything right.’ Laura sat at the table. ‘Then as soon as he’s gone back I feel awful. He’s gone
off this morning after a blazing row and I keep thinking, if anything happened to him …’ She stopped, not wishing to tempt fate.

‘He’ll ring you later,’ Rose told her. ‘He always does.’ It was true. Each night he was at sea Trevor rang at an arranged time.

‘I know. And I’ll apologise. But how do I stop it?’

Rose had been aware that things were not quite right but this was the first time Laura had told her. A weight lifted from her shoulders, one she had been unaware of, a minor form of the depression she dreaded. She had been lucky. She and David had had all those months to say all the things that needed saying, to know where they stood with each other. But Rose could not offer the consoling platitude that nothing was going to happen to Trevor. The sea chose its victims randomly.

‘And what makes it worse’, Laura continued as she accepted the coffee Rose placed before her, ‘is that he keeps saying it’s my age. It’s so bloody insulting. It’s his answer for everything.’

‘Well, is it?’

‘Is it what?’

‘Your age? The menopause?’

Laura looked up and smiled faintly. ‘I suppose it could be. God, that would make the bastard right. No, it’s more than that. He comes in and has a few drinks and he’s tired and doesn’t want sex, then I get annoyed and we argue. Do you know what he said this morning? He said I sounded like a fishwife. Rose, don’t laugh.’

‘I’m sorry. He probably didn’t see the irony. He
is
a fisherman. Come on, don’t sulk. We’ll have some more coffee.’

Laura heaped in three spoonfuls of sugar, a sure sign she was upset. ‘I’ll have to keep trying, I suppose. Anyway, what’s all this?’

It was one of Laura’s less endearing qualities that once she had poured out her troubles she let other people worry about them, regardless of the effect it had, and was herself able to continue as if nothing had happened. In brightly patterned leggings, a T-shirt and a loose top, her hair curling more
tightly because of its soaking, she now looked perfectly cheerful.

‘Ah. Just some scribblings.’

‘But this is all to do with Mrs Milton’s murder.’

Rose chewed her lip as she gently took the paper from Laura’s hand. On it she had written what Doreen Clarke had told her as well as everything else which had occurred to her. She would not, not even to Laura, break Doreen’s confidence.

‘I get it, you’re trying to outwit Jacko. He fancies you, you know.’

‘What on earth are you talking about?’

‘Jack Pearce. It’s obvious. I could see by the way he was looking at you.’

‘Honestly, Laura, the things you think up.’

Laura grinned and held out her mug. ‘Any chance of another, or are you busy? Anyway, what’s our Barry going to say about it? Detectives and widowers vying for your favours.’ Rose had mentioned the invitation to the Miltons’ in a telephone conversation.

Trevor’s right, Rose thought later. She’s obviously going through some hormonal changes if she believes DI Pearce has anything other than a professional interest in me. And she knew she ought to go and see him.

If she had to go to Camborne – and she certainly wasn’t going to present herself at the mobile incident unit in the grounds of the Milton house – then she might as well take her sketching things in case it decided to clear up. The disused mine-stacks, seen from the A30, had frequently been depicted in oils and pastels and sketches but to Rose they were displayed at their best in winter, outlined with low cloud, their crumbling brick stark against bracken and gorse. More than once Rose had felt a sense of utter isolation when working near one of them despite the hum of traffic, and even on the brightest of days she had experienced the hair standing up on the nape of her neck. It lasted only seconds until she heard the sound of a lorry grinding its gears or a crow, its black wings gleaming blue, cawed. Rose never questioned whether this was the
product of an over-imaginative brain or whether such things as spirits existed. It was part of life there and she accepted it.

‘I don’t believe it.’ She had picked up an oilskin, one appropriated from Trevor some years ago and never returned, and had her hand on the kitchen door handle when the telephone rang. The answering machine was switched on but Rose was not able to leave it to do its job if she was in the house.

‘Do you fancy coming over for something to eat tonight? I’ve got a rep coming to the shop at six, but any time after seven thirty.’

‘Thanks, Barry,’ Rose answered guiltily, having mentally gone through the contents of the fridge. It would save shopping.

The fish market was packing up as Rose drove past. She waved to several of the men she had met through Trevor and Laura and who recognised her car. By the time she reached Penzance station the rain had eased and she put the wipers on half-speed, noticing the smears of salty grease on the windscreen.

Maggie Anderson had decided to front it out. Why leave Dennis with an opportunity to extract himself? He could use many excuses for not seeing her, for not returning to London for some time. It was a double risk under the circumstances but she felt sure she could handle the police, if necessary. The advertising agency had allowed her three days’ compassionate leave; she had said there had been a death but did not qualify the statement. As none of her clients was clamouring for attention, and as she did not allow anyone to get close enough to know her family background, what she said was accepted without comment.

Maggie had been more than surprised to see the temporary hut-like structure in front of the house but not as surprised as she was at the reception she received.

I should’ve phoned, Rose thought as she asked if she could leave the car where it was until she returned. She had expected 
DI Pearce to be seated behind a desk, which was, she knew, unreasonable. But he was over at Gwithian and would be returning within the hour. Rose was quite firm when she was asked if anyone else could help her and said it was the inspector she needed to speak to. Why? she asked herself, but could not come up with an answer.

Camborne, a granite-built town, dour and uncompromising, was bleaker still in the light drizzle which showed no signs of stopping. Recession-hit, many shops were boarded over and if it wasn’t for South Crofty, the last working tin mine, she did not know how it or Redruth, the neighbouring, almost adjoining town, would survive. But South Crofty had been saved from closure by the injection of capital from a Canadian company and by local, individual investment.

She could have shopped but instead took refuge in Tyacks, a central hotel in Commercial Street, where she ordered coffee. It was brought on a tray by a cheerful waitress. As Rose looked up to thank her, her mouth dropped open in astonishment. In the doorway, shaking an umbrella, was the auburn-haired woman she had seen at the party. She must have been mistaken in thinking it was one of Dennis’s friends from London and could not remember why she had had that impression.

The woman walked towards her, pausing for a second before going on to the bar. Rose was not sure if she had been recognised or not. Turning slightly in her seat she waited until the woman had been served then, as she made her way to a table, said, ‘Excuse me. Haven’t I seen you before somewhere? Were you at the Miltons’ party?’ Close up, Rose saw fine lines in the translucent skin radiating from the eyes, under which were dark smudges.

‘Yes.’ Maggie hesitated, unsure if she wanted to become involved in conversation. She had a lot to think about. Finally, having decided that Rose might be an asset to her plans, she asked if she might join her.

‘Of course.’

‘Maggie Anderson,’ she said.

‘Rose Trevelyan.’

‘Ah, yes. I heard someone mention you. You’re the painter, aren’t you?’

The painter. It made her sound more important than she was. ‘I do paint, yes, but mostly I do photographic work these days. That’s how I met Gabrielle.’

‘The poor woman. I couldn’t believe it. I mean, I’d never even met her before that night. I’m a friend of Dennis’s,’ she added quickly. ‘We met through work.’

‘Have the police made you stay down here?’

‘No. I … well, I didn’t like to think of Dennis being left on his own. I was due some leave so I took a few days off.’

To Rose it sounded like a well-rehearsed speech. ‘But Paul’s there.’

‘I didn’t know that. I thought he’d go back to London with Anna.’

So Maggie knew enough about the Milton family to realise Paul was capable of being that selfish, of leaving his father alone. Had Dennis told her? ‘It seems,’ Maggie said honestly, but with some anger, ‘that my presence is not required. I stayed here last night. I was going back first thing this morning.’

Rose did not ask why she had changed her mind, she could read the answer in her face. Maggie wanted Dennis and was not going to give him up easily. But how could such a relationship last? One which had begun before Gabrielle’s murder? There would be too many painful memories, at least for Dennis, and a constant reminder of his guilt. ‘Can I get you another drink?’ Rose glanced at her watch. There was time, before she returned to the police station. Let DI Pearce think what he liked if he smelt alcohol on her breath. She would be under the limit if he chose to query it.

‘Thank you. A gin and tonic, please.’

Rose ordered a half of bitter for herself and paid the barman. The same waitress was placing a plate of sandwiches on the table. ‘I don’t know why I ordered this, I’m not hungry.’ Maggie stared at the food. ‘You’ve guessed, haven’t you?’

‘Yes.’

‘I always hoped Dennis would get a divorce. His wife had moved down here, I assumed it was because they weren’t
happy together. I thought I could talk him round in the end. There’s nothing I wouldn’t …’ She stopped and picked up a sandwich.

‘Do the police know? About you and Dennis?’

‘If they do, I didn’t tell them. What difference would it make?’

What difference would it make? Rose wondered if Maggie was stupid. ‘Did Dennis invite you to the party?’ She was beginning to form an assessment of Maggie Anderson’s character. It was not a pleasant one.

‘No. I wanted to see what his wife was like. He could hardly make a fuss once I was there. And she seemed to accept it. That’s not true.’ Maggie had seen the expression on Rose’s face and had guessed what she must be thinking of her. ‘Gabrielle invited me.’

‘Gabrielle?’

‘She knew. I think she knew from the start. I don’t know how she found out – I expect she had enough contacts to make the right inquiries. Unless Paul told her.’

‘Paul knew too?’

‘We bumped into him by accident once.’

Rose found all this new information hard to assimilate. ‘But why would Gabrielle ask you down?’

Maggie smiled for the first time and Rose saw her attraction. ‘You obviously don’t play the same games, Rose. Think about it. There is Gabrielle as the hostess, in her own home, with her husband. My being there would show the affair up as shabby compared with what Dennis already had. His guilt and fear and anger at seeing me there would be enough for him to end it. Gabrielle was not going to let go, you see.’

Rose felt sick. Did many people carry on in this way? She decided to drop her own bombshell. ‘Did you know Dennis is about to be made redundant?’

‘What?’

‘He told me the other night. When I was having dinner with him.’

Maggie’s face reddened but whether it was from anger or some other emotion was not clear.

‘Look, I’m sorry, but I’ve got to go. I’ve got an appointment.’
Rose would have liked to stay longer, but Maggie now knew her name. If, for any unlikely reason, she wanted to speak to her she could look the number up in the book. She was not going to get involved further.

My God, Rose thought as she went out into the cool air. Maggie? Had she realised that evening that she stood no chance, and had she decided to wipe out the opposition? Leave it to the police, her subconscious told her.

‘Have a seat, Mrs Trevelyan.’ DI Pearce was smiling and polite, perhaps deliberately in contrast to the way she had treated him in her own home. ‘Tea or coffee?’ Rose shook her head. ‘Well, what can I do for you?’ Jack Pearce leant back in his chair, relaxed and easy, his hands resting on his lap.

‘I … well, it sounds daft, but this …’ She slid a copy of the photograph across the desk.

Jack glanced at it for less than a second, then raised his eyebrows inquiringly.

‘Can’t you see it?’ Rose leant over and pointed to the blur.

‘Hmm. Just like in the film.’

‘The film? You mean the negative.’

‘No. The film.
Blow
Up,
I think it was called. You must remember it.’