Deep in concentration, the next hour or so passed quickly. Only when her fingers, encased in fingerless gloves, became too cold to work did she decide it was time to go home.
There was Christmas to think about. Rarely did she bother with it unless her parents came to stay. In latter years that was infrequent, they usually took a cruise. This one would be different because it would be the first one her father would spend without her mother in all the years since they had been married. Rose knew she had to make it special for him, not by creating a fuss but by making sure he enjoyed it as far as was possible. How she could do that was a different matter.
Doreen Clarke had been beating butter and sugar for a cake when she heard the news on the radio. ‘Poor little mite,’ she said aloud. She was pleased her boys were men and out of that sort of danger even if they faced others. They both lived abroad, on different continents. As their father had been before them, they were miners, but since the last Cornish tin mine had closed down they had had to seek work elsewhere. Her husband, Cyril, had been made redundant a decade ago and, at fifty-one, had found himself too old for any other sort of work. His despondency did not last long. All his time was now invested in the garden surrounding their bungalow in Hayle. He could always find something to do whatever the season, whatever the weather. Many of their friends benefited from the produce he grew as well as from the flowers that flourished under his care.
Before she left for work the following morning Doreen listened to the news again. The child still hadn’t been found. She hoped Jack Pearce was on the case. He’s a good man, and an ’ansome one, she thought, as if good looks could make any difference.
It was Wednesday, the only weekday when she had the afternoon to herself. As the house she was cleaning that morning was in Crowlas, on the road between Hayle and Newlyn, she decided she would call in and see Rose after she’d shopped in Penzance. They hadn’t met up for a coffee in weeks. She would take some of Cyril’s carrots, a Savoy and half a dozen of the firm skinned onions that Rose loved.
Rose was cleaning paintbrushes when Doreen arrived. She smiled at the sight of her friend. Short and dumpy and bundled up in her winter coat, Doreen resembled a cheerful gnome. Although junior to Rose by a month or so, she could pass for ten years older and had a habit of acting as if she was her mother. Her iron-grey hair was cut in an uncompromising chin length bob. Over her shoulder was slung the large bag that travelled everywhere with her. ‘You’ve timed it well. I’ve just finished work for the day.’
‘And I’m glad to find ’e in maid. I know you go out working in all weathers, just like my Cyril. It’s a wonder the pair of ’e don’t catch your deaths. Here, take this bag, there’s a bit of veg in it for you.’
Rose thanked her and filled the kettle. No way would Doreen leave before she’d had a cup of something. And Rose now had the time to listen to the latest gossip.
‘You heard about Margaret Bishop, didn’t you?’
Rose shook her head. She had no idea who Margaret Bishop was but that wouldn’t stop Doreen recounting the tale of what had happened to her, or, more likely, what the woman had done.
‘And now there’s the awful news about that little girl, you must’ve heard about that,’ Doreen continued when she had finished the story of adultery, made more scandalous in her view because it was being conducted with a younger man.
‘Yes. I was there when it happened.’
‘You were?’ She leant forward, avid for news.
Rose gave her a brief account of the events of the previous afternoon.
‘You’ll have Jack on your back now, maid. You know what he’s like, he’s so protective of you.’
Protective? Rose did not see him in that light. ‘I’m not in any danger, Doreen. My name wasn’t given to the press and whoever he is; the man won’t be interested in me. All I hope is that they find her alive.’
‘We all hope that.’
Rose did not add that she had been to see Beth’s mother. She didn’t want that bit of information being passed on. She liked Doreen enormously but there were limits to how much she was prepared to confide in her. As Doreen continued to chat Rose wondered if she ought to mention it to Jack. It was probably best to be honest but she knew what anger such an admission might well arouse.
CHAPTER THREE
Doreen and Jack must have passed on the road for he tapped on the kitchen window only minutes after she’d left. He knew he looked tired. It had been a very late night. But any decent person, let alone a policeman, would sacrifice sleep to search for a missing child.
Rose opened the door. ‘Come in, Jack. Would you like a drink or some tea?’
‘It had better be tea. I could be called back in at any time.’
Rose kissed his cheek, standing on her toes to do so. He was almost a foot taller than her. A faint smell of aftershave remained in the stubble, which had appeared since he had shaved that morning. ‘I take it this isn’t purely social,’ she said as she filled the kettle. It was evening now as far as she was concerned and she’d had her fill of tea with Doreen. It was certainly dark outside, therefore time for a glass of the dry white wine she enjoyed after a day’s work.
‘Not entirely. Someone else could have come but it was an excuse to see you. I suppose I was also half hoping you might’ve remembered a few more details regarding yesterday afternoon.’
She pulled off the band that held her hair back in a ponytail. It had been wound too tightly and her head was beginning to ache. ‘I’ve been thinking of nothing else all day. That’s it, Jack. What I told the officer yesterday is all I know. Is there any chance of finding her?’
‘What can I say? Your guess is as good as mine here.’
‘I went to see Sally Jones this morning.’ Instantly, she saw the tightening of his mouth. ‘And before you say anything, she, or, rather, her sister rang to ask me to go over there. I don’t really know why. Anyway, I would have thought your PC in residence there would have told you that already.’
No one had told him. All telephone calls and visitors to Sally’s address were supposed to be monitored. Someone would be in trouble, either Janice Richards for not reporting it or the officer who had taken the message but failed to pass it on. ‘So what was the outcome?’ Jack was fully aware that he could not control her actions, Rose had always made that perfectly clear.
‘There wasn’t an outcome exactly. I think she needed someone to talk to other than a policewoman. All Sally could think of by way of explanation was that I was the last person to see Beth. She looks dreadful, Jack, but no wonder. I can understand what she must be going through.’
‘Can you?’
Rose bit her lip. Was he being deliberately cruel in referring to her lack of children, or was it simply an unthinking comment because he’d had a hard twenty-four hours? She decided to give him the benefit of the doubt. Now was not the time for an argument.
‘No doubt you’ll be going to see her again.’ He held up his hands, the palms facing Rose as if to ward off a verbal attack. ‘Not that I can stop you if that’s what she wants. But isn’t it enough that you turn out to be the only witness? I really despair of you sometimes, Rose.’
‘Look, Jack, it was through no fault of my own that I happened to be on the beach at Marazion. Even you have to accept that.’
‘Yes. I do.’ He took the mug of tea she handed him. ‘I wish this had never happened, I wish I was here because we were going out for the evening. There are times when I hate this bloody job.’
She was aware of the reason for his mood. He was dreading the worst scenario and was powerless to do something about it if it had already taken place.
‘Look, are you absolutely certain that Beth went with this man willingly?’
Rose nodded. ‘I’m positive.’ There was no way in which she had been mistaken. The child had held up its arms and asked to be carried. Unless there was another explanation. ‘Jack, is it possible that a four-year-old girl, one who’s used to being with people, one who isn
’t in the least bit shy, would have no fear in going off with a stranger? Could he be one of those men who offer sweets or some other treat and she simply trusted him enough to go with him?’
‘It seems unlikely, but you never know. These days mothers warn their children about such dangers while they’re still in their prams.’ But it does still happen, he reminded himself.
Rose thought about other explanations. Carol claimed Sally was virtually alcoholic. Suppose she was the sort of mother never to have issued such warnings, a mother who took strange men into her home so her daughter had become used to them? Or had she been drunk or partially so yesterday and not watching Beth as well as she ought to have done? Except her breath didn’t smell of alcohol, Rose recalled, and she had been close enough to have noticed. None of this did she mention to Jack. For a start there was only Carol’s word for it and the bottle Rose had seen may have been less than half full to begin with. It was not a logical thought but Rose felt vaguely responsible for what had happened to little Bethany Jones, as if, in some way she could have prevented it.
Jack’s pager bleeped. ‘May I use the phone?’ He asked because he never took advantage of her hospitality.
‘Of course you can.’
‘They’ve let the father go,’ he told her when he had finished the call. ‘His name’s Michael Poole.’ Jack knew that anything he told her would go no further, that despite her ability to get into trouble, her overdeveloped sense of curiosity and one or two other irritating habits, Rose was totally trustworthy as well as being a true and loyal friend to those she liked. As she had visited Sally Jones she was probably already aware of the father’s name.
‘Was he arrested?’
‘No. We kept an eye on him overnight then someone interviewed him at his firm’s head office in Plymouth. He was devastated and volunteered to go to Charles Cross police station to make a statement. He’s been advised against coming down here just in case whoever has Beth decides to get in touch with him. Everyone’s been advised to carry on as much as normal, which is pretty ridiculous under the circumstances, but we need the people involved to be contactable just in case.’
‘You think Beth’s been kidnapped?’
‘She’s certainly been abducted but I doubt there’s any ransom involved. The mother’s almost penniless, apart from any benefits she might be claiming, and Poole’s in a good job but not one that will make him rich.’ He sighed. ‘I just don’t know, Rose. If a relative hasn’t snatched a child and there’s no ransom demand these cases turn out to be about sexual abuse or murder. Sometimes both.’
Rose recalled what Sally had said about Michael Poole continuing to support his child. ‘But is she on benefits? Sally told me that Beth’s father still pays for her keep regularly.’
‘What do you mean?’
Rose blushed, ashamed of her thoughts. ‘Perhaps she’s claiming as well.’
Jack frowned. ‘You’re not making any sense, Rose.’
‘When I was at Sally’s, one of the things she said was that she didn’t want anything more to do with Beth’s father, which was the reason she’d moved away from Looe. It surprised me that he carries on paying when he doesn’t have any access to Beth.’
This sounded a little too altruistic to be true. ‘Was Janice Richards aware of this comment?’ If this were the case there could be two reasons for her being in trouble.
‘No, I don’t think she was, actually. I’m sure she’d gone to use the bathroom at the time. Why? Is it important?’ Even before she’d finished asking she realised that it might be. If Michael Poole was still making payments to Sally it was possible that she was guilty of benefit fraud. But surely there would be checks made on a newcomer to an area before the DHSS started handing out money.
‘It certainly could be. It’s something to look into.’ Not much of a start, though, except Jack was beginning to think that the case was not as simple as it appeared. ‘I think I’ll go now. I’m going to try and get a couple of hours sleep. I’m shattered.’
That he left without kissing her or arranging another time to see her showed Rose just how concerned he was.
After he’d left she felt restless and would normally have sought Laura’s company, but Trevor had landed and would want to spend time with his wife. Rose smiled. Well, not necessarily. Although he was at sea for days on end, their reunions were not always harmonious. Trevor would be tired as he, like many other fishermen, worked in shifts, four hours on, four hours off, and once Laura, who worried about him continuously whilst he was at sea, knew he was safe, she was not one of the most patient of women. She had always been the same. It was her nature; just as her nervous energy and vibrancy was a part of the whole that made Laura what she was. Rose envied her ability to eat whatever she wanted and to remain thin.
I’ll ring Barry Rowe and see if he fancies a drink, she decided. He answered the phone on the second ring. Maybe he had hoped it was Jenny calling. To save him embarrassment, Rose asked if he’d arranged to meet her that night.
‘No, not this evening,’ he said. ‘She’s babysitting. Are you about to invite me somewhere sophisticated and exciting?’
‘Such as where?’
‘Ah, I get your point. Just a drink I take it?’
‘That’s what I had in mind. How about the Alex in half an hour?’
‘Ideal. I’ll see you soon.’
The Alexandra Inn and Alexandra Road in which it was situated, were named after one of Queen Victoria’s daughters who had once visited the area. It was about halfway between Newlyn and the shop in Penzance above which Barry lived which meant they could both walk the distance easily.
It was a clear night with the tang of kelp in the air. The beach was littered with thick wads of seaweed. Sometimes there was none at all; it depended upon the ebb and flow of the tide and the roughness of the sea. Overhead, stars glittered sharply and a full moon shone on the blackness of the water in the bay, lighting up a container ship, which lay beneath its circle. Beyond it was what looked like a frigate, but Rose couldn’t be certain. The wind had dropped but there was a rolling swell which made the silvery reflection of the moon undulate. In the distance a curlew cried as it took flight from its resting place.
No matter what time of the year, no matter what time of the day or night, Rose never tired of the beauty before her. She would not, could not, ever leave the area now.
When she arrived Barry was already at the bar. There were several other customers; those who called in after work. But it was too early for the people who went home to eat first. Rose knew most of them. This was typical of the area, everyone knew everyone else and their business and it was a foolish person who gossiped in public because the man or woman standing right behind you was likely to be a relative of the person under discussion.
It was warm in the pub. The thick, lined curtains were drawn against the winter evening. The click of balls meant that a game of pool was underway in the other bar.
‘Dry white?’ Barry asked as he pushed his thick-rimmed glasses back into place. As long as Rose had known him he had never owned glasses that fitted him properly.
Barry ordered her drink. He already had a pint of one of the several real ales on offer in front of him. The pub had built up a reputation for good beer and excellent food, which the landlady made herself from fresh, local ingredients. ‘So, to what do I owe this honour?’ As Barry smiled several lines creased his wide forehead, above which was his slightly thinning hair. Rose noticed it was no longer in need of a cut.
‘I don’t know really. I just felt like getting out.’
Rose had never been afraid of going anywhere alone. Like many women locally, whose husbands were at sea, she felt no shyness or embarrassment in visiting any of the pubs without an escort. And it was perfectly safe to do so. This made Barry wonder why she had specifically wanted his company.
Rose hoisted herself on to one of the high but comfortable bar stools and then, because it was so much on her mind, she told Barry about Beth.
He listened carefully then sighed. ‘Don’t get involved, Rose. You know there’s nothing you can do.’
‘But I’m already involved. I can’t stop thinking about her. She’s out there somewhere, maybe cold or terrified or hurt.’
Barry knew he was defeated; that nothing he could say would stop her becoming more involved. He sipped his beer whilst he thought about it. ‘Let me put it this way then, what do you actually intend doing?’
‘I might go and see Norma Penhalligon. There’s something not quite right. I can’t put my finger on it but I think she might know something.’ She sighed. ‘Enough of this; how’s Jenny?’
Rose had learnt a lot about Jenny Rogers during the short time she had known her. After an unhappy marriage she had divorced. Nichola, now twenty-one, was her only child. Nichola had become a single parent eighteen months ago and adored her own daughter, Polly, but she refused to name the father. Jenny guessed that this was because he was married rather than because she didn’t know his identity. Her daughter was not promiscuous. Either way, both women loved Polly.
It had been a surprise to Rose to watch the easy way in which Barry responded to the child. Perhaps his total lack of experience in that respect precluded any preformed ideas regarding children and had prevented inhibitions in their company to have taken hold.
Two single mothers, Rose thought, two women she had recently come into contact with, yet they had so very little in common.
They talked shop for a while; Rose’s ideas for the greetings cards, Barry’s plans to increase his range of stock the following summer, then they both decided they were hungry.
‘It’s fish and chips for me tonight,’ Barry said as they left the bar. ‘Would you like me to walk you home first?’
‘No, thanks. I’ll be fine.’ She wanted to be alone now to think. Something Doreen Clarke had said was bothering her. Just what it was she couldn’t remember. She had not been concentrating fully at the time because occasionally, when Doreen was in full flow, it was necessary to switch off for a while. The words were more likely to come back to her if she tried to think of other things.
Caught Out in Cornwall Page 3
