Malice in Cornwall (24 page)

The rest of Rowlands's account seemed almost anticli-mactic. He had told Linda Porter about Tebble's intention to go to Trevenney. She had tried to convince him to do something about it then threatened to take matters into her own hands (to protect her investment, Powell surmised). In the end, it appeared that she had resorted to her considerable charms, of which Tebble had evidently availed himself, to try and persuade old Nick to be reasonable. Offering her body to someone like Tebble could only be viewed as an act of desperation, but regardless of what transpired between them in her cottage that day, she ended up following him back to the Old Fish Cellar where she killed him.

Bang, bang. Two birds in the bag at last. There were still a few loose ends, not the least of which was the identity of the person who had tried to send him on a one-way trip down a mine shaft. Rowlands claimed to know nothing about it, but it was significant, Powell thought, that when he learned about the incident from George Polfrock, he had panicked and tried to put as many miles as he could between himself and Penrick. He maintained that he'd simply had enough. More likely, he was afraid that he'd be next. Rowlands knew Linda Porter better than most.

The most plausible scenario, Powell surmised, was that Jim Porter had told his wife about their encounter on the road; she had followed him up to the mine, found him in a vulnerable position, and let him have it on the head with a length of pipe. Nothing but grief in this bloody job. It didn't make a lot of sense when you thought about
it, though. Kill one copper and a dozen more spring up to take his or her place. Powell supposed that she had associated the mine workings with the murder of Ruth Trevenney and her lover's role in it and had reacted irrationally, thinking perhaps that he was onto something. In any case, she was no doubt far away by now.

After they'd seen to Rowlands, Powell limped back to his office accompanied by Inspector Richards, who walked slowly and with exaggerated precision so that Powell could keep up, giving the impression that he was putting himself out.

“That was easy,” Richards said smugly.

Powell stopped suddenly and glared at his subordinate. “Get stuffed, Richards, and when you've done that, type up your notes. I want them on my desk in an hour.”

It was nearly nine o'clock when Powell finished up. He'd just got off the phone to Sergeant Black in Penrick, having set the wheels in motion. He thought about the rest of his evening, such as it was. Marion and the boys wouldn't be back until Sunday and he didn't relish the thought of a frozen dinner alone in his empty house. He reached into his pocket and extracted a crumpled piece of paper. He unfolded it carefully. Jane Goode's phone number. He picked up the telephone and began to press the keys. After the first few digits he paused, then he slowly replaced the receiver in its cradle. He reached into a desk drawer for an envelope, placed the paper inside, and sealed it. He got up stiffly and put on his jacket. He picked up his cane and made his way into the outer office. There was a bank of mail compartments on the wall to the right of his office door. He walked over and
stuffed the envelope into the box labeled
DET.-SGT. W. BLACK.

Downstairs there was a minor commotion at the reception desk. Two young women in regulation club gear— satin T-shirts, plastic miniskirts, and platform shoes—were giving the sergeant on duty a hard time. Screaming obscenities at him, to be more precise. From what he was able to gather, as he limped toward the door, their dates were being detained somewhere for disorderly conduct, the lot of them high on the latest designer drug by the sound of it. Nothing but grief, he thought again.

Powell stepped out into the drizzle and hailed a cab.

“Where to, guv?”

“The K2 Tandoori in Charlotte Street.”

The cab sped off, tires swishing, down the rain-slicked street.