Snapped in Cornwall (15 page)

The evening was not a success. Laura was not her normal vivacious self but rather withdrawn. Rose did not like to ask if it had anything to do with Trevor. Her own mind was preoccupied, too. So many ideas were jumbled and she was unable to concentrate on one thing at a time.

‘Do you mind if we go now?’ Laura asked at ten fifteen. They had walked as far as the Queen’s Hotel on the front, had one drink there, then retraced their steps to Newlyn. It was a landing day, the harbour a mass of masts, the
pubs reflecting the number of boats in by the persistent ringing of the tills. Mostly they enjoyed the noise and laughter but the two women needed solitude and a chance to think.

They parted outside the fish market, the shutters down now on the concrete building. ‘I’ll ring you tomorrow,’ Rose said as she turned to make her way up the hill.

She had left a light on. The path was uneven and it was easier to see to fit her key in the lock. No danger of burglars tonight, she thought, seeing Jack Pearce’s car outside, Jack himself at the wheel.

‘Where have you been?’ he asked as soon as she was parallel with his window.

‘Out. Is it allowed?’

Jack got out of the car.

‘I’m tired.’

‘So am I. Did you get my message?’

Rose could not deny it. Had he looked, he would have been able to see through the front window that the message had been played back. The light was no longer flashing. Opening the kitchen door she realised he was right behind her. Without invitation he followed her inside.

‘You’ve arrested Paul, then,’ she said immediately, hoping to put him at a disadvantage.

‘Not much escapes you, does it, Rose?’

‘But not for the murder?’

‘Dennis Milton’s been sniffing around again, I take it.’

Rose resented his terminology but ignored it. ‘I got the books. Had I known it was to be a wasted journey, I wouldn’t have bothered. Did you just want to borrow them or something, and not like to ask yourself?’

‘My, my. We are in a mood this evening.’

‘Are we? I’m simply very tired.’

‘Listen, it wasn’t a wasted journey. I can’t say more than that. I’ll go now. I only wanted to make sure you did what I asked.’

‘Do I get expenses?’

‘Pardon?’

‘Expenses. Petrol money? Loss of earnings? And I’ll have to return them at some point.’

Jack’s smile did not reach his eyes. Rose saw he really was tired. The lines around them seemed to have deepened.

‘Make sure you lock up,’ he said before he left. ‘Oh, I wondered if you were doing anything tomorrow evening?’

‘I am, actually.’

‘Barry Rowe?’

‘I don’t think that’s any of your business, Inspector Pearce.’ She smiled sweetly and shut the kitchen door before he could say anything else.

‘Feisty little madam,’ he muttered as he slammed the car door.

Rose heard nothing from Jack the next day. She did some housework and ironing before printing a dozen copies of the photograph the author had chosen from the contact sheet. There were two jobs in the diary for the following morning. After checking she had enough film and cleaning the camera lenses Rose sat down with a cup of coffee and a book. Her intention was to have a quiet evening alone, to simply relax and forget all that had happened. It was not to be.

‘She what?’ Anna was amazed that Rose Trevelyan had returned to the house on the pretext of borrowing some books. It was obvious what she was after. Dennis. Dennis would be a nice meal ticket for a single woman who had to work for a living. And Paul, the stupid fool, had encouraged it by giving her one of Gabrielle’s bits of sewing. And now Paul had been arrested. Of course, he would be released – he didn’t have it in him to kill his mother.

Dennis, sick of Anna’s attitude, had not bothered to tell her why he had been arrested. She had been out at the time, shopping in Truro.

Anna thought very carefully about what she must do. First, so as not to arouse suspicion, she must sit with Dennis and try to eat the meal Mrs Clarke provided. The woman, she thought, had no idea of sophisticated cooking. Dennis, she knew, would push the food around his plate. If she were Doreen Clarke she wouldn’t bother.

‘Do you want a divorce?’ were the first words Eileen Penrose uttered when Jim returned for more clothes. She had seen him approach from the window.

‘I haven’t had time to think about it yet.’

‘So I just sit here and wait for you to come to a decision?’

‘It isn’t easy. Not after all this time.’ He was weakening, he knew that, but he did not want Eileen to know yet. They had been through a lot together and he had supposed that once the children left home his wife would relax, that her jealousy would become less of a problem. Living in a mate’s back room was not his idea of a home life and Eileen could not be faulted on how she ran their home. But it was more than that – he loved her. Loved, not in love with, and Jim knew the difference. He saw her properly for the first time in years. She was too thin, eaten up by her anxieties, but she still had a nice smile. Not that she had smiled for ages. The expression in her eyes was not one he had noticed before, half pleading, half angry. She would not make the first move, of that much he was certain. ‘Give me a few more days, love.’ And with that he was gone.

Eileen did not move. He was coming back, she knew it. He had called her love.

The following evening he was back again, letting himself in with his key. He threw his bag into a corner. ‘All right,’ he said, ‘we’ll give it another go. But there’s going to be some changes. For a start you’re going to stop checking on my every movement. You could have got me locked up, you realise that, don’t you?’

‘I wouldn’t have let that happen.’

Jim ignored her. ‘And I won’t be answering any of your endless questions from now on. If I want to take a drink, I’ll do so. If I want to eat my supper in the pub, I’ll do that too. And if you ever accuse me of going with another woman again then it will be a divorce. Do you understand that?’

‘Yes,’ Eileen said, turning her back so he would not see the gleam of triumph in her eyes.

But Jim was enjoying his own little triumph. For three of the
nights he had been away he had shared the bed of Rita Chynoweth – and what made it even better was that, although he was sure no one knew, if the news did filter back to Eileen there was nothing she could do about it, not if she wanted him to stay.  

Jim felt no guilt. For too many years he had been made to feel guilty over things he had not done. It was his own small revenge.

The gossip spread rapidly. Eileen was aware of halted conversations when she entered a shop and the nudges of women chatting on the pavement but she assumed they were discussing the split-up and Jim’s return. Let them talk, she thought, head held high. The irony was that she had always believed him unfaithful when others hadn’t and now the reverse was true.

DI Pearce had explained to the superintendent that the plan had not worked.

‘I think you should give it another day, Jack,’ he was told. ‘After all, you can’t guarantee the position’s been made clear. We dare not take any risks now.’

Jack was glad to hear this. He was also glad to be operating from headquarters rather than from the Milton premises. He was never as comfortable on away ground.

Anna telephoned her office and said she would be back at work soon. Once the police realised Paul was innocent, he would be released. Meanwhile she had to make sure Dennis was not influenced by anything Mrs Trevelyan might say or do. Several times she had broached the subject of money with Dennis, playing on what she believed to have been Gabrielle’s wishes, that she would have wanted Paul to be all right. Dennis had not said much but at least he had not given a refusal.

Anna was unaware that he was not even listening, that his thoughts were of Gabrielle and of the trouble his son was in.

Doreen Clarke was amazed when she learned that Paul had been arrested. She, too, made the wrong assumption. ‘To think I was under the same roof as a murderer, Cyril. I can’t believe it. I could’ve had my throat cut any minute. And Cyril, I do wish you’d take that cap off when you’re in the house.’ She stirred a dollop of cream into the cauliflower soup she had made. Doreen believed a generous portion of the clotted variety every day never hurt anyone.

‘Will you stay on?’

‘Of course. No point in leaving now, when the danger’s over.’

‘There’s a girlfriend, isn’t there?’ Cyril asked, finally removing his cap.

‘Anna. Madam. God knows what she’ll do now. They won’t be engaged any longer, you mark my words. She tried to get round me this morning, she did. Came into the kitchen and tried to get me into conversation. She was asking about that nice Mrs Trevelyan. Rose, the artist.’

‘Oh?’ Cyril was studying the paper. It would not have taken much trying to get Doreen into conversation, he thought, but was wise enough not to say.

‘I soon put her right. I said I was busy and that I wasn’t going to discuss a friend of mine, especially one as nice as that. I told her, I said, “She’s got a good head on her shoulders, she knows more than most around here.” And then when she said she wanted some coffee I told her where the kettle was.’

Dennis and Anna sat in silence at the dining-room table and toyed with mushroom soup. Dennis had crumbled a bread roll but had not eaten any of it. He had arranged for a solicitor to be present while Paul was questioned but the man had told him not to be optimistic.

Chicken casserole and broccoli followed the soup. Anna ate most of it, not wishing to seem in a hurry to leave the house. Doreen nodded in satisfaction when she cleared the plates. It
was a shame that Anna refused to eat cream, she looked as if she needed a few more pounds on her.

‘I don’t believe it.’ Rose threw her book to one side and heaved herself out of the armchair. She was comfortable and pleasantly tired and well into the plot. Although she was tempted to let the answering machine do its job, she knew that would be daft. If she refused to answer the phone each time it only meant ringing back whoever had called. It was hardly an economical way of doing things.

‘I thought you’d be out.’ The surprise in Jack Pearce’s voice was genuine.

‘I changed my mind.’

He was thrown. He had planned a carefully worded message. Instead he said, ‘Well, in that case, do you fancy meeting me for a drink later? There’s a couple of things we need to discuss.’ He paused. ‘And I would like to see you again.’

How could she resist? ‘All right,’ she said. ‘What time and where?’

‘Eight thirty? I can’t make it until then. Somewhere in town?’ Normally he would have offered to pick her up but he did not want to compromise her as far as her neighbours were concerned. He named a pub. ‘There’s a chance I might be a few minutes late. It’s unavoidable in this job. I hope you’ll wait.’

‘See you later.’

Jack was pleased. There was something he needed to tell her, which he could have done over the telephone, but he wanted to see her, to have her to himself on neutral ground. Last time they had got along fine.

There was time to finish the novel. Rose made another coffee and decided what, out of her limited wardrobe, she would wear. It was a mild evening but almost dark. The few remaining flowers took on different hues in the half-light and the grass was a bluish green where the fluorescent tube cast a
paler rectangle on the lawn. Rose shut the back door but did not lock it.

Later she cleaned her teeth and changed into a sage-green pleated skirt and a cream blouse, then put on some make-up. She gathered her hair at the back and clipped it in place with a large wooden slide.

Downstairs she picked up her book to finish the last four pages before she set off for Penzance.

Jack Pearce, fresh from the bath, was only running a few minutes late. He had, he realised, overdone the aftershave and rubbed off the surplus with a towel, wondering at the wisdom of taking Rose out. They were not teenagers, he could not buy her a couple of lagers or a few glasses of wine and leave it at that. Rose would expect more of him. Besides, he thought as he grinned at himself in the steamed-up mirror, she might easily outdrink me. For the first time in many years he studied his face. Was he good-looking? He did not know. He was used to what he saw, but what did Rose see?

Trousers, clean shirt and jacket, but no tie, that would be overdoing things … He checked his pocket for keys and wallet and left his flat.

Jack liked Rose – more than liked her – but just why, he wasn’t sure. She was pleasing to look at and took no nonsense from anyone. She was talented and intelligent and moved around with the energy of someone half her age. But God help anyone who got her back up.

Since his wife, Marian, had departed, Jack had taken out several women but once the sexual attraction had waned they had bored him. They lacked something he needed by being too compliant or too obviously seeking a husband. Rose was interesting. There were depths to her he was sure he would never reach.

Jack whistled as he walked down the hill towards the sea. Lights from the salvage tug anchored in the bay rippled over the water and, to the west, a fishing boat chugged out of the harbour. It was a calm evening; the faint slap of water against pebbles was the only sound apart from an occasional passing
car. Above the harbour the tiered lights of the houses of Newlyn twinkled. He paused and breathed in the air with its hint of kelp. An oyster-catcher called as it flew from the shore.

The Mount’s Bay Inn was less than a hundred yards away. Rose would be sitting there, a drink in front of her. Jack anticipated her smile.

He pushed open the door. To his right, in the small dining area, a couple and a man on his own were eating. At the bar were three men, two of whom he knew. The window table was occupied by an elderly couple with a dog. There was no Rose. He ordered a drink and exchanged a few words with the solicitor at the bar, a prosecutor, with whom he had come into contact several times, then he sat down.

Rose used the pub, she would know the people present, but he could not bring himself to ask if she had been in. He was only fifteen minutes late. Surely she would have waited that long? He lit a cigarette. The obvious explanation was that he had told her he was likely to be late so she had not hurried herself.

Each time the door opened he glanced up expectantly. At nine fifteen, two pints later, he knew she wasn’t coming.

‘Similar?’ the landlord asked when Jack placed his glass on the bar.

‘No, thanks. I’m off now.’

He crossed the road and leant against the railing, staring at the sea, kidding himself that he was enjoying the view: hoping that Rose would appear, walking quickly from the direction of Newlyn. A youth cycled past him. Jack could not be bothered to challenge him – let him ride on the pavement if he wanted to.

‘Sod her,’ he said aloud, and started walking back towards the town. Not wishing to go home, he stopped at the London and began some serious drinking. Something stirred at the back of his slightly befuddled brain. He went to the telephone and dialled Rose’s number. The answering machine came on. ‘Rose,’ he said. ‘Rose, it’s me. Jack. I’m in the London. I’ll be here for another twenty minutes. Come in the car. I’ll wait.’

He returned to the bar and ordered one more drink. If she did not arrive he’d get a cab and go over there. If Rose didn’t want to see him, fine. But he had to make sure she was all
right. Maybe she hadn’t stood him up. There might have been an accident, or perhaps some relation had been taken ill. Rose did not have his home telephone number and it was unlikely she would have tried to contact him at work. Her parents might have needed her. If she still had parents. There were so many things about her he didn’t know.

After twenty minutes there was no sign of Rose. Jack rang for a taxi and was told one would be there in five minutes. He gave the driver the directions, feeling slightly ridiculous, like some love-struck youth hanging about for a glimpse of a girl. He knew the registration mark and make of Barry Rowe’s car and dreaded seeing it outside the house.

‘Just here. Hold on a minute.’

The driver pulled in, the engine running. Rose’s house was higher than the road. Jack leaned over. There was a light on in the front room but the curtains were drawn. No sign of Rowe’s car. Then his stomach tightened. In the gap between Rose’s Mini and the road was a car he recognised. Gabrielle Milton’s car. It now belonged to Dennis.

‘Back to Penzance, please. Drop me in Greenmarket.’

The driver shrugged, unconcerned at his passenger’s strange request.

So that’s the way it is, Jack thought. I should’ve seen it coming. Rose hadn’t wasted any time. She had taken him for a fool. She might even have known Dennis before she met Gabrielle, might even have been having an affair with him. Why not? Dennis was no saint.

There were approximately thirty pubs in Penzance. If he couldn’t get drunk tonight, he never would.

Rose had not heard the tap at the door. She was half-way down the stairs when she began to feel uneasy, to sense that she was not alone in the house. Laura would have called out. Whoever it was was not going to delay her – she was looking forward to the evening.

She pushed open the kitchen door. Anna stood leaning against the outer door, her hand behind her, still on the handle. ‘I need to talk to you,’ she said.

‘Oh? You might have telephoned. I’m just on my way out. Perhaps you’d like to come back tomorrow.’

‘I think we’d better get this over with right away.’

Rose hesitated. Anna’s eyes were narrowed. Something was definitely troubling the girl. ‘Five minutes then. In here.’ She led the way into the sitting-room; it seemed more formal that way and Jack would probably be late. ‘All right, what is it?’

‘I want Gabrielle’s books back, and I want you to stop asking so many questions about my future family. Why are you so interested?’

‘Is that really any concern of yours?’ Rose flushed, annoyed with herself for doing so. She had taken too much upon herself; she saw how it must appear from Anna’s viewpoint.

‘Is that any concern of mine?’ She mimicked Rose. ‘It is, when it’s blatantly clear you’re after Dennis, that you want to take what’s rightfully mine.’

‘Yours? I don’t understand.’

‘Gabrielle promised she’d leave everything to Paul. Of course it would be mine as well.’

‘But she didn’t change her will.’

‘She would have. Now it’s Dennis’s and you’re after it.’

‘Oh, Anna, honestly. I can’t see what you’re getting so excited about. I’m not after Dennis, as you put it.’ She smiled to show how silly she thought Anna was being, yet underneath she was wary. The girl showed all the signs of being mentally unbalanced.

‘Excited?’ Anna swung round. Her coat flew open to reveal an expensive dress. ‘You’re trying to steal what’s mine and you’re going around like some bloody amateur detective attempting to put me in the wrong. You leave us alone, do you hear? Or I’ll go to the police.’

And Jack would just love that, Rose thought. Her mind was working on two levels, coping with what was happening at the moment and analysing what she had previously suspected. As an intellectual exercise it had been one thing; this was something quite different.

I’ll redecorate, she thought irrationally, once this is over – I really will. She was unaware that she was doing what she had
done throughout David’s illness, concentrating on trivia, not allowing her mind to accept reality.

‘Why don’t you sit down, Anna, and we’ll discuss this sensibly.’ Rose glanced at the carriage clock: the minutes were ticking away. How long would Jack wait before he rang or came to look for her? How long before he gave up and went home, the logical part of her brain said. She must keep Anna talking, defuse the situation if at all possible. Something else struck her: Anna was wearing gloves.

‘There’s nothing to discuss. You’re a bitch, Rose Trevelyan.’

Even with the gloves Rose was astonished at the amount of pain the stinging blow to her face caused. She raised a hand and felt the heat. No one, she realised, had ever hit her before, not since the days of the school playground anyway. She had no idea how to react and could not bring herself to deliver a blow in return. ‘As I said, I was on my way out. I’d like you to leave now. Or
I
shall call the police.’

‘Do you know what you’re doing, you stupid, stupid woman?’

Rose flinched at the fury in Anna’s face. She was no longer attractive.

‘You’re stupid and crass and boring, living your parochial little life down here. As soon as a real man comes on the scene you’re after him like a bitch on heat.’

Rose cursed herself for having become involved, for listening to Dennis in the first place and for not doing as Barry suggested, leaving it to the police.

‘Did you hear me? You’re a bitch.’ Anna was screaming as she threw herself at Rose, her hands grabbing her hair, her arms strong from regular exercise.

Rose’s eyes filled with tears from the pain. She pushed at Anna, realising her twenty years’ seniority for the first time. All the times she had heard or read of ways of protecting yourself – kicking at a shin or poking fingers into an opponent’s eyes – and still she could not bring herself to do it. She couldn’t even scream.

Anna had backed her out of the room but Rose couldn’t remember getting to the kitchen. The small of her back was against the sink, their faces were almost touching, and Anna’s
hands were around her throat. Rose had her hands on Anna’s, trying to grasp the little fingers, to wrench them back and break them if necessary, because now she really knew the danger she was in. Anna had nothing to lose. The room was spinning. There was a harsh pain in her chest obliterating the other pain from the ridge of stainless steel cutting into her spine.

Anna’s grip relaxed but one hand grabbed for her hair again. Rose knew, without doubt, that she had seen the bread-knife. If she got out of this Rose knew she would never leave dishes unwashed again.

Anna pulled back her arm. Fleetingly Rose was puzzled. Something dripped from the knife. Had she been stabbed and not felt it? She had heard that pain could be delayed. No, it was water, not her own blood.

Only then were all inhibitions gone. In a split second she acted instinctively, the need for survival an all-encompassing emotion. Had she really wished herself dead when David died?

Rose kicked out, hard, glad of the low-heeled court shoes with their solid uppers. The blow hardly unbalanced Anna.

‘No,’ she shouted, and with every ounce of strength she possessed Rose bent sideways and grabbed Anna’s wrist, kicking out again as she did so. She was free. In one movement she turned and picked up a kitchen chair.

Anna shrieked obscenities and raised the knife. Rose felt hot tears run down her face. ‘No, oh please God, no,’ she sobbed as she raised the chair and brought it down hard on Anna’s head.

There was a sudden silence and then a strange noise. It took Rose several seconds to realise it was coming from herself. Her breathing was ragged and caught at her chest. Her whole body felt limp. She clutched at the table to steady herself.

Anna lay on the floor, her stockings and pants visible where her clothing had caught on something. Rose covered her. She was breathing. There was no blood. Rose knew that was bad, that gaping wounds and flowing blood always looked worse. It was internal injuries which were dangerous. What if Anna died? But what if she didn’t do something quickly, if Anna
revived, picked up the knife and plunged it into her before she had a second chance of defending herself?

Rose kicked the knife away, then picked it up and placed it in a drawer. In the sitting-room she picked up the telephone. ‘Jack,’ she said, ‘come quickly, I need help.’ The words sounded slurred to her own ears. There was no reply. She stared at the receiver wondering why she could only hear the dialling tone.

Shock, she thought, I’m in shock. Some normality returned. She punched out three nines with shaking hands, her index finger sliding off the last one. ‘There’s someone in my house. They’re injured. I think they’ve killed someone.’

‘Fire, police or ambulance?’ the impersonal operator demanded.

It seemed an age until Rose was certain that they understood, that help was on the way. She wanted to stop them talking so they could get there faster.

She had to get out of the house. Her handbag was in the kitchen. Only afterwards did she realise how ridiculous it was to have felt she must have it with her, how many times people had endangered themselves for a few bits of paper and a couple of pounds.

Anna was stirring, trying to push herself to her knees. Her face was grey. Rose shoved her, knocking her to her side, then fled. She was half-way down the hill before she saw the blue light in the distance. She stopped then, and leant against the wall, unable to move. A breeze rustled the hedge behind her and she jumped but she did not have the strength to care if Anna had somehow caught her up. She sank to the ground, arms across her chest, head on her knees …

‘Mrs Trevelyan?’

Rose looked up and saw the concerned expression on the face of a WPC.

‘Come on.’

A blanket was wrapped around her and she was driven the short distance back to the house. ‘I can’t go in.’

‘It’s all right. You’re safe now. The young lady’s going to have a headache, but she’s not badly injured.’

Rose allowed herself to be led inside and past the figure who
was being attended to by another officer as they waited for the ambulance.

The next half-hour was a blur. At some point Anna was taken away but the kitchen still seemed to be full of people. Rose sat at the table and drank the tea someone had made. Each time she raised the mug to her lips some spilled. There were spots on her skirt. The blanket was still around her shoulders.