Malice in Cornwall (13 page)

“But why?” Powell mused.

“You're the detective.”

“Somebody else has recently made that point.” He shook his head, frowning. “Damn it all! My instincts keep leading me back to Ruth Trevenney.”

“At least we have one thing in common.”

Powell gave her a curious look. “What do you know about the Porters?” he asked, changing mental gears.

She shrugged. “I've chatted with them in the pub a few times. Why do you ask?”

“I met them the other day myself, and I remember you mentioning them.”

“You haven't answered my question.”

“I'm just curious.”

“What do you want to know?”

“General impressions, for a start.”

She thought about it for a moment. “Linda seems to do most of the talking. I don't know, they seem nice enough, and they've given me some great stuff for my book. In a way, the story is about them.” She was becoming animated now. “You see, it's about this couple—he works in the City and she's in public relations—who tire of their life of endless parties and superficial relationships and decide to pack it all in for a life of genteel self-sufficiency in Cornwall. The idea is sort of romantic, don't you think?

So when I came out here to write the book, you can imagine how thrilled I was to meet the Porters. It's rather like life imitating art.”

Genteel self-sufficiency. Life imitating art. Powell spoke carefully, aware that he was treading on dangerous ground. “Have you been out to their cottage, by any chance?”

“No, why do you ask?” she replied guardedly.

“Just asking,” he said, discretion being the better part of valor. “Is there anything about them, or the way they relate to each other that strikes you?”

“Why do I feel I'm being interrogated?”

“We're not allowed to use that word anymore.”

She wondered what he was getting at, although she thought she had a good idea. “I make a point of not judging people too quickly, even policemen.”

“Very funny. I get the impression that they don't get along very well.”

“A lot of married couples don't get along very well.”

“I'll tell you the thing that struck
me
about Linda Porter. Unlike everybody else around here I've spoken to, she didn't seem the least bit interested in the Riddle or the fact that a woman's body has washed up on the beach not more than a quarter mile from her cottage.” There was something else about Linda Porter that he declined to mention, an aura of sexuality that was reminiscent of the chemical pheromone exuded by certain female moths that has the effect of attracting every male from miles around. Powell could picture her in her garden in her green Wellies and very little else.

He suddenly wondered what Marion would think if she knew that he was picnicking with an attractive novelist
on a secluded Cornish beach known for its nude bathing. She probably wouldn't give it a moment's thought, he decided; she knew him too well. He sighed and gazed out to sea. The breeze had freshened again, ruffling the surface of the water. “You'd better finish your wine,” he said. “We should be getting back.” “Yes, I suppose so.” She looked disappointed.

Linda Porter picked up the telephone. “Yes.” She sounded bored.

Tony Rowlands was on the other end. his voice tight. “I got your message. I told you not to call me here.”

“Afraid little Jenny might get jealous?”

“Don't be ridiculous. I'm busy, that's all. The lunch crowd—”

“Screw the lunch crowd!” she snapped. “Do you expect me to sit here at your beck and call?” She took a deep breath. “Look, sugar, I need you. I want you to come over so we can, um, talk.”

“You know I can't get away now, besides I really don't feel up to it. I mean to say, I've got a lot on my mind …”

“Nick been in again?”

“Not since the other night.”

“What are you going to do about it?”

“About Nick? What do you mean?”

“He's not going to let it lie, you know that.”

“He's harmless, really.”

She laughed harshly. “Harmless? That's rich.”

Rowlands's voice sounded tense. “As long as I give him a bit of work now and then, he's happy.”

She gripped the receiver tightly. “He'll never be happy, you know that.”

“Look, just leave it to me.” Muffled voices in the background. “I've got to go.”

“Jim will be away again tomorrow …” Her voice pleading now.

“I'll call you later.”
Click.

“You bastard!” She slammed the receiver down. Why did she always get tied up with losers?

She took several deep breaths, imagining that she was pushing the air down into the pit of her stomach. It was a yogic relaxation technique she'd learned from an old boyfriend. It seemed to help somehow. Her eyes roamed the dingy kitchen. She'd have to be careful, he was her only hope, her ticket out of this dump. She lit a cigarette and exhaled sharply. She sat smoking in the gloom for a considerable period of time. Eventually she picked up the phone and dialed mechanically. She fidgeted while the urgent double ring continued for several seconds. Then someone answered.

The next morning, while ducking out of the Wrecker's Rest en route to the teahouse, Powell and Black had been confronted by a surly Mrs. Polfrock who demanded to know if they would be staying the full two weeks after all. Powell informed her in his most officious manner that they were in Penrick at the pleasure of the local constabulary, and that she might wish to check with Chief Inspector Butts. It occurred to him at the time that he hadn't run into Mr. Polfrock for a while, except for the odd glimpse of him scurrying furtively in the background.

After a brief conference with Sergeant Black over a croissant and coffee, Powell drove to St. Ives to meet with Chief Inspector Butts, listening to disposable pop on Radio One. Once a thriving fishing port, St. Ives was now known as a tourist center and artists' colony, although it had been said by one wag that all the artists of any renown were either dead or had long since fled. The extent to which the bohemian spirit of the place had withered was epitomized in a recent letter sent by the St. Ives Town Council to the Chamber of Commerce asking its
members to stop displaying saucy postcards outside their shops. Apparently the councillors hold the view that the reputation of St. Ives as an artists' center will be damaged if visitors on their way to the art galleries are confronted by traditional seaside pictures of seminude women. It wasn't difficult to imagine more than one now-respectable artist of the St. Ives school, whose work was considered scandalous in its day. spinning in his or her grave.

For all that, St. Ives retains an undeniable charm with its narrow streets and picturesque harbor, sandy beaches, and well-kept houses clinging to the hills that climb around the bay. At this time of year traffic was light, and Powell located the police station without difficulty.

Chief Inspector Butts did not exactly look thrilled to see him. “Good morning, Mr. Powell. The fax you were expecting just arrived from London a few minutes ago. The one from the coastguard came in last night.”

“Let's have a look at them.”

Butts handed the papers over. A list of women reported missing in the past month compiled by one of Powell's colleagues at the Yard and a report from the Coastguard Operations Centre in Falmouth in connection with the recent boating mishap in the English Channel off Torquay. Powell skimmed through the list of missing persons and then turned his attention to the coastguard report.

It seemed that on the evening of April 15, a party of four—two men and two women—had set out from Torquay for a joyride in a sixteen-foot motor launch. The launch was reported by several witnesses to be traveling at a high rate of speed and swerving from side to side in a
reckless manner. A small dinghy operated by a local fisherman was nearly swamped in the speedboat's wake. It was subsequently reported by one observer that just before dark, whilst attempting a sharp turn at high speed, the launch struck a wave broadside and flipped over. All four occupants, who were wearing life jackets, were thrown clear. The two men and one of the women were able to make it back to their capsized boat. Unfortunately, due to strong currents, the other woman was swept out to sea. The three survivors, suffering from hypothermia, were eventually picked up by the local lifeboat crew. Alcohol was considered to be a contributing factor in the accident. The woman still missing was presumed drowned. Her name was Katherine Reynolds, age thirty, five feet three inches tall, brown hair and hazel eyes.

Powell handed the reports back. “Looks promising, don't you think?”

Butts shrugged. “It seems to fit, all right.”

Powell leaned back in his chair. “How far would you say it is from Torquay to Penrick—as the fish swims, so to speak?”

Butts thought about it for a moment. “I'd have to check the map to be sure, but off the top of my head I'd say it's got to be one hundred fifty miles, give or take.”

“According to the coastguard officer I spoke to, the average current speed in these waters is about two knots. To allow for the vagaries of wind and tide and so on, let's assume an average speed of drift of one knot. Let's see, one hundred fifty miles divided by twenty-four miles a day … I make it about six days, say a week to be on the safe side.”

Butts seemed to be getting into the spirit of things.

“That sounds about right, assuming the body didn't get caught up somewhere.”

“That's a good point. But let's keep it simple for present purposes. Do you have a calendar handy?”

Butts reached into his jacket pocket for his appointment book and handed it to Powell.

“Let's see, the accident is reported to have occurred on Tuesday, April fifteenth. The Riddle was first reported in Penrick the following Monday, that would be April twenty-first; so far, so good. Our body was recovered on the Sands two weeks later on Monday, May fifth. What's today—the tenth?” Powell paused for a moment to collect his thoughts. “Sir Reggie conducted the postmortem the day before yesterday—that would be the eighth,” he continued. “He indicated that the most likely time of death was fourteen to sixteen days earlier.” Powell digressed for a few minutes and summarized Sir Reggie's findings.

“That's bloody peculiar,” Butts muttered.

“That would put it somewhere between the twenty-second and twenty-fourth of April, about a week after our accident in Torquay and around the time the Riddle was first reported in Penrick,” Powell said.

Butts frowned. “It doesn't seem to fit, then.”

“I think it might be close enough—Sir Reggie has indicated that there is considerable uncertainty in this case—but a positive ID would help.”

“Light at the end of the tunnel, sir?”

“Not quite. We may have explained where the body came from, but not what was subsequently done to it.”

“Probably just some hooligans out to make trouble,” Butts said unconvincingly.

Powell examined his colleague critically. “You don't really believe that, do you?”

“What's your theory?” Butts asked defensively.

“Think about the logistics involved to pull the thing off. Whoever is responsible has gone to a lot of trouble to make their point.”

“Which is?”

“I was hoping you could tell me.”

Butts folded his hands and placed them carefully on his desk. He did not speak for several seconds. When he did, his voice was flat, expressionless. “You know about it, don't you?”

“About Ruth Trevenney, you mean?”

Butts nodded wearily.

“Only the bare bones. I know she was murdered near Penrick in the late Sixties and that her body washed up on the Sands under circumstances that bear an uncanny similarity to the Riddle.”

“Similar in what way?” Butts did not meet his eye.

“The body of a young woman discovered by a hippie tripping on acid, and a latter-day version that glows in the dark like an hallucination. It's too much of a coincidence. I think you see it, and I think others do as well. Dr. Harris, for instance.”

Butts sighed. “I tried to convince myself that there couldn't possibly be a connection. Then I asked myself, Why would they bring in the Yard for a routine investigation? I realized then that there must be something to it.” He looked at Powell. “It was a terrible thing, sir. It was nineteen-sixty-seven. I'd just joined up and was posted in St. Agnes. It was the first murder I'd ever come close to. I wasn't directly involved—not in an official capacity, I
mean—but I grew up in Penrick and knew Ruth. She was a lovely girl, as fresh as a spring day. I fancied her a bit, although she was a few years younger than me. It seemed like such a senseless and brutal crime. Her throat cut and then her body thrown into an abandoned mine like a piece of refuse.” His expression darkened. “And there's more. There was evidence that she'd been, er, interfered with.”

“You mean raped?”

“Yes.”

It occurred to Powell that he only knew of one pervert in Penrick. “Go on.”

“There's not much more to tell, really. The police investigation drew a complete blank. The conventional wisdom at the time was that it must have been an outsider, a drifter, one of the hippies from Mawgawan Beach, maybe.”

“What do
you
think?”

“I was no different than the rest. I couldn't bring myself to believe anything else. How could it have been one of us?” He paused. “Then your Riddle turned up.”

“Any ideas?”

Butts frowned and shook his head. “I wouldn't even know where to start. When it comes right down to it, the whole thing doesn't make much sense, does it? Whoever killed Ruth is probably long gone, or even dead. In any case, who would want to draw attention to it now? Certainly not the murderer.”

Exactly, Powell thought. Unless—

“I almost forgot, sir! My lads turned up something in the towans near where you and Ms. Goode found the body. An old cart, like the ones they used to use to unload
the fish from the boats. You still see a few of ‘em around. I'm having forensics go over it with a fine-tooth comb. It occurred to me that it could have been used to haul a body around, but I didn't want to say anything until I was sure.” A surprised look from Powell. “I suppose I should have mentioned it earlier, but I took the liberty, that is I thought…”