Caught Out in Cornwall

by Janie Bolitho

  CAUGHT OUT IN CORNWALL

  JANIE BOLITHO

  Janie Bolitho died from cancer on the 27th September 2002. This book is dedicated by her family to her loyal readers.

  Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  About the Author

  By Janie Bolitho

  Copyright

  CHAPTER ONE

  A small crowd began to gather. One minute, apart from a few distant dog walkers, Rose Trevelyan was alone on Marazion beach; the next about a dozen people had arrived to witness the ensuing drama. As she gazed out to sea with her hands in the pockets of her warm, wool jacket, the wind whipped her hair around her face and sent fine particles of sand skittering across the toes of her boots.

  The tide was high, the causeway leading to St Michael’s Mount, the home of Lord St Levan, was covered by the broiling water as the wind pushed it further landward. White spume rode along the top of the waves.

  It was November and at three p.m. the light was already fading as low, heavy rain clouds were swept across the expanse of the bay. Rose had seen the maroon set off from the yacht which now drifted dangerously. Its mast had snapped. The sails, still partially attached to the boat, dragged heavily in the rough sea. It could not have had an engine unless that, too, had failed.

  She had used her mobile phone to alert the coastguards but someone had beaten her to it; someone who may well have seen what had happened before the flare exploded in the sky.

  It started to rain. Large spots dimpled the fine white sand. Suddenly rain was sweeping up the beach and stinging the faces of the intrepid onlookers. But it had always been that way in Cornwall. Since the days of smuggling and times when more numerous shipwrecks occurred, whatever the weather, the locals would turn out to help, or if that failed, to plunder if a ship went down.

  The lifeboat came into view, its blue and orange colouring a welcome sight. How brave were those men who risked their own lives for somebody else’s. But they were never forgotten. Even now the Newlyn Christmas lights were switched off on the 19th of December in memory of the crew of the Penlee lifeboat who lost their lives in an unbelievable feat of bravery. Men; fathers and sons who, on that storm ridden night had refused to give up until every option had been tried, by which time it was too late for them as well as those they had been trying to rescue from the doomed Union Star.

  Rose understood the cost to their families. She had been devastated when David, her husband, had died from cancer. That was several years ago. More recently had come her mother’s death.

  A small child, a girl of about four, walked past. She was dark-haired and healthy-looking, although not suitably dressed for the weather for she wore no coat over her jeans and jumper. At first she appeared to be alone. Rose watched with suspicion when a man leant down to speak to her, then relaxed as the child held up its arms and said ‘Carry me’. The man picked her up and hurried up the beach towards the car park. The pair of them were soaked.

  Squinting, Rose could just make out the line that ran from the lifeboat to the disabled yacht. Visibility was poor; the scene shrouded with rain, but there was movement aboard the yacht.

  A woman screamed, then. ‘Beth,’ she shouted. ‘Oh, my God, Beth.’

  Rose was confused, not understanding that two dramas were being played out, one at sea, the other on land. A tall young woman turned her head from side to side, frantically searching the beach. She groaned then stumbled amongst the crowd. ‘Have you seen my daughter? Have you seen my little girl?’ she repeated.

  ‘What does she look like, maid?’ an elderly man enquired.

  ‘She’s only four. She’s got long dark hair and she’s wearing jeans.’

  Rose frowned. The description fitted the child she had seen, but that child had gone off happily with the man. There must have been a misunderstanding. She approached the woman, who was now crying. Someone was ringing the police. Rose touched her arm. ‘I think I saw Beth. She went off with a man. Could it have been her father? She didn’t seem at all distressed.’

  ‘No. No, that’s impossible. He doesn’t know we’re here.’

  Rose hadn’t wanted to give the woman false hope but it was unlikely there were two children fitting that description on the beach at the same time, especially in view of the weather.

  Some people would have walked away and left matters to the police. Not Rose. For one thing she was a witness and she knew what the man looked like. Her trained artist’s eyes did not miss much. This time her friends could hardly accuse her of interfering; surely they would have done the same?

  When the police arrived the lifeboat was towing the yacht away. The second incident had eclipsed the first. How ironic that the crew, now presumably safely aboard the rescue vessel – who had been in far more danger than a child in the relative safety of a West Country beach, in the care of her mother – had been saved, whilst the girl was now missing.

  One of the policemen put a blanket around the shoulders of the woman and led her up the beach to where the patrol car was parked. Having given some barely coherent details she was now shivering too much to be able to speak at all.

  ‘Did anyone here see anything that might be relevant?’ the second, younger officer asked. Rain glistened on his plastic cape.

  Rose swallowed. ‘Yes. At least I think I did.’ What would Inspector Jack Pearce think when he heard of her involvement? If he heard. Maybe the little girl was safe, sitting in a Marazion cafe with someone who knew her, drying out and getting warm. Jack Pearce was her lover. Well, some of the time. He was never able to understand how her interest in people led her into situations where crime was involved and which sometimes put her in danger. She was aware that she always acted before she thought. But look at today. She had simply come to study the sea because there was a blank canvas waiting to be filled and she needed inspiration. A seascape; she had already decided that, a winter seascape painted in oils. The last two had been done in acrylics. Had the maroon not gone off she would have made some preliminary sketches.

  ‘I’ll need to ask you some questions, madam. Can you spare a few minutes?’ Rose nodded. The PC spoke into his radio requesting back up.

  ‘Can any of us do anything?’ It was the man who had spoken to the distraught woman who asked.

  The PC organised them into a rough sort of search party and those who were willing to stay spread out along the beach. There were rocks behind which the child might be hiding. ‘Let’s get in the dry,’ he said to Rose.

  She followed him up to the car. The woman was in the back, the blanket clutched tightly to her. Her face was expressionless. Rose gave her name and address. ‘The child I saw fits the description but she went off willingly with a man. She asked him to carry her.’

  ‘I see. Can you describe him?’

  ‘Yes. He’s about six foot, certainly no less, well-built, he’s got dark hair and he was wearing jeans and a sort of parka-style jacket. It had a hood but he wasn’t wearing it.’

  ‘Thank you.’ The PC had been making notes.

  ‘Does it sound like anyone you know, Sally?’ the first officer asked. The woman shook her head. ‘Are you married or living with anyone?’

  ‘Neither.’

  ‘And Beth’s father? Could it have been him?’

  ‘No. We moved down here about five ye
ars ago. He hasn’t seen her since she was a baby and he doesn’t even know we’re here.’

  ‘I see. Does he have any access to Beth?’

  ‘No.’ She paused, then decided to be honest. ‘Not any more, but that’s down to me. I didn’t want anything more to do with him and didn’t want him to have contact with Beth. We weren’t married.’

  ‘Are you certain it couldn’t have been him?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘All right, we’ll get you home now. It’s the best place for you to be, there’s nothing you can do here.’ He turned to Rose. ‘Mrs Trevelyan, do you require transport?’

  ‘No thank you, I’ve got my car.’

  ‘We might need to speak to you again.’

  She was aware of that. If the little girl had been abducted she might have to go to court if they arrested the man. She refused to think of whatever else might happen to four-year-old Beth. ‘Have you anyone to sit with you?’ she asked, knowing that a female officer would be despatched to the house, that Sally would not be alone. But she might like the company of another woman, one who was not in authority.

  ‘It’s all right, I’ll be fine.’ She did not sound as if she would.

  ‘Look, I’ll give you my number. If you need anything, just ring me.’

  ‘You’re very kind. Thank you.’

  Rose unlocked the car, got in and started the engine. It was doubtful that Sally would telephone but Rose was glad she’d made the offer. Cold and tired, she drove back home.

  Her house in Newlyn had magnificent views of the bay and an ability to restore her equanimity. It had been her home since her marriage to David all those years ago and she had no intention of moving. It was granite built, like so many properties in the area, and stood at the top of a steep drive. To the left of the drive was the garden and a shed which she had converted to a working area for the summer months. Inside, nothing much had been altered since the day it was built apart from the addition of a modern bathroom and kitchen. She unlocked the kitchen door; she rarely used the one at the front, flicked on the light switch and was immediately grateful for the warmth of the central heating. Filling the kettle, she prayed that Beth was already safely back with her mother. But somehow she doubted it. It was dark now but she never drew the curtains. Impossible to cut off that view. She made coffee and took the mug through to the sitting room. The darker outline of St Michael’s Mount was just visible. All along the curve of the coastline lights twinkled. To the left, down in Newlyn Harbour, many fishing boats were safely moored. Trevor’s would be one of them. Laura Penfold, Rose’s best friend, had said her husband was landing that day, that the storms were due to last for some time. The conditions were not conducive to successful fishing and, besides, it was far too dangerous. She could see the waves splashing against the walls of Penzance promenade even though the tide was now ebbing.

  She had not realised how cold and wet she was but, gradually, warmth returned to her limbs. She took off her coat and went back to the kitchen. Her father was coming for supper; it was time to get it started.

  Arthur Forbes had once been a Gloucestershire farmer. When the red tape involved had become too restrictive he had taken early retirement and bought a cottage in the Cotswolds. He and Rose’s mother, Evelyn, had been happy there and had made the garden their main hobby. Evelyn had died less than a year ago and almost immediately after her death Arthur had decided to move to Cornwall to be near his daughter, his only living relative. A month previously he had bought a three bedroom house in Penzance, one which Rose considered to be too big for him but she kept her opinion to herself. It was his choice, not hers. How strange it was to have him so near, and to have him alone. She recognised and appreciated the efforts he made not to appear demanding upon her time or hospitality. Fortunately they were both independent people and could survive that way. It had now become a weekly ritual that Arthur would eat with Rose. Now and then they went out for a meal.

  Rose smiled. Her staple diet was fish, given to her by Trevor or one or other of the fishermen she knew. There was always plenty, some of which she gave to her father.

  She hoped he wouldn’t object to it again tonight. Once she had skinned the monkfish and cut strips from its central bone, she prepared the vegetables.

  At seven fifteen she heard her father’s car in the drive and opened the kitchen door. It was no longer raining but the wind was gusting round the building. However, it had stood there for over a century and could withstand worse weather than this.

  ‘Hello, darling. What a night.’

  Rose shut the kitchen door and kissed his cheek. ‘Ready for a drink?’

  ‘Yes, please. I’m surprised you haven’t got one on the go-’

  She laughed. ‘You’re beginning to sound as bad as Jack Pearce.’

  ‘Well someone needs to keep you in check. What is it?’ Her smile had faded. ‘Has something happened?’ He sat at the kitchen table while Rose got out glasses and poured wine.

  ‘Yes, it was all very strange.’ She explained what had taken place on the beach as she tried to piece the events together.

  ‘Have you listened to the news? Maybe they’ve found her by now.’

  It hadn’t occurred to her. It was too late for the local television news but they could listen to Radio Cornwall later. She sat down and decided to lighten the mood. Her father had not yet had time to grieve properly, she did not want to make things harder for him by appearing worried. He looked older and frailer now, although Rose suspected his robustness might well return with time. At least the new house was keeping him busy. Together, they had chosen wallpaper and paint and Arthur spent his days decorating. Rose knew he would need to find other interests once the work was complete. At least he had a garden which needed a lot of work to keep him occupied.

  ‘Seen much of Jack lately?’ Arthur tried to sound casual but he desperately hoped that Rose and Jack would get together on a permanent basis. Her many friends shared the same view, as had her mother.

  ‘When neither of us is not too busy.’

  Subject closed, he thought. ‘And Barry?

  ‘Ah, yes, Barry. To my amazement he’s still seeing Jenny.’

  ‘You see, it’s never too late to change.’ Arthur had known Barry Rowe for almost as long as his daughter had done, over a quarter of a century. To his and Evelyn’s surprise, once Rose left art college she had come to Cornwall to study the Newlyn and St Ives schools of painting. But she had never returned. Within months she had met David Trevelyan and married him within a year. Her marriage had been a happy one, but one without children, which was not for the lack of trying. Naturally her parents had been disappointed but they had come to accept that it wasn’t to be. It had been Barry who had introduced Rose to David, who happened to walk into the shop as Rose was delivering some watercolours for Barry to copy and turn into blank greetings cards. She still did this sort of work for him as well as taking photographs, which would be converted into postcards. Barry’s business, comprising the Penzance shop and the Camborne print works, was successful. ‘You told me he’d smartened himself and his flat up considerably; was this all in aid of Jenny?’ her father enquired, mischievously.

  ‘No. Those things happened before. Maybe meeting her was just a natural progression.’ Ever since he had met her, Barry had loved Rose but she had always made it clear she had no more to offer than friendship. As far as she was aware there had never been a woman in his life about whom he was serious. Now, at the age of fifty, he had suddenly found one. Rose, expecting to have felt a twinge of jealousy after all his years of devotion, only felt pleasure. She liked Jenny.

  The monktail, baked in the oven with fennel and a squeeze of orange juice, was ready. Rose served the meal and they talked of general things as they ate. When the dishes were done they listened to the news. Rose guessed what was coming by the solemnity of the announcer’s tone.

  ‘Four-year-old Bethany Jones, who was with her mother on Marazion beach, was seen leaving the beach with a man at ar
ound three twenty this afternoon. Bethany is still missing. The police have mounted a full scale search and they have been assisted by volunteers,’ the announcer continued before asking for assistance from the public and giving a number to ring if anyone had any information.

  Rose sighed. Jack had always told her that the longer a child was missing, the less likely he or she would be found alive. It might have been a judgemental opinion, but from what Rose had seen of Sally Jones it seemed unlikely that she had the sort of money which would attract a kidnapper wishing to demand a ransom. She appeared malnourished and her clothes were threadbare and cheap.

  ‘I’d better go, Rose. Thanks for a lovely meal. My turn next time. I’m becoming a dab hand at stews and even your mother would be proud of my dumplings. And, look, try not to worry. The police will do all they can to find her.’

  But Rose was worried. Supposing Beth had been abandoned somewhere, what chance would she have of survival, especially in this weather? ‘Ring me tomorrow,’ she said as she handed him his coat. It had become a daily ritual since her mother’s death. It was reassuring for them both.

  She made tea and took it up to bed along with the novel she was reading. However hard she tried she could not get the picture of the pinched, forlorn face of Sally Jones, with her spiky fair hair, out of her mind.

  She looked like a victim. Perhaps that was why she had become one.

  Rose turned out the bedside lamp and pulled the duvet around her shoulders then lay listening to the storm until she finally fell asleep.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Although the heating was on and the gas fire in the unused grate was lit, Sally Jones was shivering. Not so Janice Richards, the family liaison officer who had remained with her throughout the night. She was sweating beneath her uniform blouse. Neither of them had slept. For Janice, it was part of the job.

  The small lounge of the rented flat smelt stale, the air was thick with cigarette smoke. The previous evening Janice had thoughtfully closed the door of the bedroom where Beth normally slept. There was too much visible evidence of the child who was no longer there. ‘Shall we have some more tea?’