The wind had risen slightly and was now blowing gently off the sea. A few clouds were blown across the bay temporarily obscuring the moon. Towards Newlyn a trawler chugged into view and made the turn ready to sail into the harbour. The fishermen would remain on board until they had landed their fish in the morning.
When she reached home she made her daily call to her father then completed the crossword in the Western Morning News whilst she waited for her meal to cook. It felt strange, not being at the gallery annexe taking her class on a Wednesday evening.
The following morning, as Rose walked down through Newlyn and along the Promenade towards Morrab Gardens, the sky was a clear blue with a small bank of white cloud in the distance. Barry required some new watercolours for the notelets he produced. They were always simple designs, usually a single wild flower on a plain background. Now and then Rose would portray a huddle of cottages around a church, a disused mine stack or one of the tiny fishing villages with their steeply sloping streets and quaint harbours. However, having discussed it with Barry the previous night she had decided upon another local feature; the subtropical plants which flourished in the area. There were many varieties in Morrab Gardens; palms which grew to ten or twelve feet high and had massive flowers in the spring and summer, and succulents with their fleshy leaves ranging in shades from palest green to black.
In her battered canvas satchel were sketchpads and pencils, her fingerless gloves and a small waterproof sheet in case the benches were damp.
Choosing a seat near the fountain Rose studied a palm tree, one of the Phoenix families, although she wasn’t sure which. Its shape, outlined against the sky, was ideal for what she had in mind.
Well protected by layers of clothes and surrounded by tall trees and many shrubs she was sheltered from the wind and was therefore able to work for over an hour before the cold began to penetrate. She watched a herring gull stamping the grass to bring the worms to the surface. A grey wagtail darted around the stonework of the fountain, its white edged, and blackish tail bobbing up and down continuously. It reminded her of Doreen who was always bustling. And Doreen reminded her of Norma Penhalligon.
It was just after ten thirty. By the time she walked home, got the car and drove to Marazion Norma would probably have done her shopping and it would surely be too early to be disturbing her at lunch. Now was the ideal time to go. She packed up her sketches and started to walk home, wondering just when it was she had decided for certain that she would pay the woman a visit.
She was dressed in jeans, boots, a thick checked shirt and a heavy sweater. Over this she wore a padded jacket. But she didn’t imagine Norma would be offended by her informality. At least her hair was tidy, held back at the nape of her neck by a tortoiseshell clip.
When Norma let Rose into the house she showed no surprise at seeing her. She merely smiled as if she had known she would return then ushered her in through the door leading to her flat. It was almost as Rose had imagined it to be. The furniture was made from a dark wood and looked old and well used. There was an arrangement of dried flowers on the sideboard and some framed photographs and china ornaments scattered over various surfaces. Heavy curtains hung at the windows. A fire blazed in the grate, throwing out more heat than seemed possible. This room probably reflected they way the whole house had once looked in the Victorian era when it was built.
‘I had a feeling you might be back. Shall we have some tea?’
‘That’d be nice. Thank you.’
‘You sit down, I’ll go and fetch it.’
Norma had been more welcoming than Rose had expected. She sat in one of the deep leather armchairs with its brass studs. It was scuffed in places but still very comfortable. The whole room had a comfortable atmosphere as if many people had relaxed in it. Apart from the cheerful fire there were small tables beside both armchairs and at either end of the matching settee. Each of them held an ashtray, a reading lamp and a coaster. There would be no need to reach far for anything in Norma’s flat.
I’m here now, but what do I say? Rose asked herself. Hopefully Mrs Penhalligon would lead the conversation.
Surprisingly, the tea did not come in cups on a tray but in two mugs. One proclaimed ‘I love my grandma’; the one that was handed to Rose advertised a brand of instant coffee. ‘Do you take sugar, maid?’ Norma enquired.
‘No, thanks.’
‘Just as well. Neither do I. I usually keep some in for guests but I’ve run out.’ She sat down heavily and rubbed a knee beneath her cord trousers. ‘Now, I suppose this is about little Beth. You’re not happy with the situation, are you?’
Rose was amazed that she could have seen that on such a short acquaintanceship.
Norma nodded and patted her greying hair, checking for wayward curls. ‘I saw it in your face. You were worried, of course, but you were puzzled, too.’
‘Well, who wouldn’t be worried? It was, well, actually it was something the sister said.’
‘Ah, Carol. I can’t make that one out. Sally’s as straightforward as they’re ever likely to come and she can’t do enough for Beth, but for some reason I don’t trust that Carol.’ She paused. ‘What exactly did she say to you?’
Rose swallowed some tea. It was very strong and made with full cream milk and tasted awful. ‘Obviously you won’t repeat this, but Carol suggested her sister was an alcoholic.’
Norma snorted. ‘Never. What ever put that idea into her head? The girl likes the occasional drink, but who doesn’t? As far as I’m aware she has a couple in the evening once Beth’s in bed. She can’t get out unless I babysit and that’s not often because she hasn’t had a chance to make any real friends yet. I know it’s only my opinion but I’m sure Carol’s wrong.’
How could she be so sure? Carol would know Sally better than Norma did, and Norma couldn’t possibly be aware of what was going on upstairs twenty-four hours a day. Yet Rose believed her. Norma had quickly discerned that Rose was troubled, and she came across as a woman of good sense, one with an ability to sum people up accurately on a single meeting.
‘What do you think is going on?’
‘I don’t know, Mrs Penhalligon, but something just doesn’t feel right.’
‘That’s my impression, too. Sally told me that the child’s father tried to obtain custody even though he’d never have been able to look after her himself, not without giving up his job. He’d got it into his head that Sally wasn’t looking after her properly. She told me it was awful, Social Services nosing around all the time. Obviously he didn’t get anywhere with it.’
‘It’s almost as if there’s some sort of conspiracy against her.’ Rose voiced her thoughts aloud before realising they were overexaggerated. ‘Not conspiracy exactly, but it’s as if she isn’t meant to keep Beth.’
‘It does, seem that way, although I heard on the news that Beth’s father is in the clear.’
‘I know, Jack told me.’
‘Jack? You mean Inspector Pearce?’
‘Yes. He’s a friend of mine.’
‘You could have worse friends than that.’ Norma smiled. ‘More than a friend from what I gather. There’s no need to blush, maid. I know Amelia Pearce. We were at school together.’
It should not have surprised Rose, who had lived in West Penwith long enough to realise these things always happened. She had met Jack’s mother on several occasions, although she didn’t encourage visitors and rarely left the village of Paul where she lived. Rose liked her and admired her independence. ‘She’s by no means a recluse; she’s simply one of those people who prefer their own company to anyone else’s,’ Jack had once told her.
Amelia Pearce had been warm and friendly and took an interest in Rose’s work. On that first visit Amelia had cooked them pasties, the best that Rose had ever tasted. The pastry was light and they were made in the traditional manner; the meat, beef skirt, at one end, potato and swede at the other. Some insisted that the meat should be on top in order that the juices ran into the vegetables but Amelia had
managed to make them do so anyway.
‘He’s a good lad, is Jack. I’m glad he’s in charge of the case.’ Norma’s smile faded. ‘It’s been two days now.’
Rose knew what she was thinking but didn’t want to put it in words herself. ‘I wish there was something we could do to help.’
‘I suppose we could go and see Carol. To offer our moral support? I called on Sally this morning but she doesn’t want any visitors. Besides, her mother’s with her now. She closed up the shop and came straight down even though Sally said not to.’
Offer moral support? What a strange suggestion. Norma must have an ulterior motive. Rose had met Carol only briefly, it was hardly enough of an excuse to turn up uninvited. Norma knew her a little better which made Rose wonder if she had suspicions regarding the sister. Jack, or someone, would have interviewed her, that much was certain, but it was often the case that people were less guarded in their speech when dealing with those who were not in authority. Or am I fooling myself? she wondered. Am I just hoping that I can put things right? ‘When did you have in mind?’ She had committed herself now.
‘No time like the present. We could stop and have a late lunch on the way back. You’ll have to drive, dear. I don’t have a car any longer. She lives some way out of Marazion, it’s too far to walk.’
‘That’s fine.’ Giving Norma a lift would give her the perfect excuse for being there. Rose stood and put on her coat then waited for Norma to clear away the mugs and fetch her own coat from where ever she kept it. Then, together, they went out to the car.
There was some congestion in the narrow streets as two double-decker buses tried to pass as they made their individual ways to and from Helston, but soon they were winding through country lanes, going up hill, away from the sea. ‘I think it’s the next left,’ Norma said. ‘I’ve only been there the once.’
‘Oh?’ Rose wondered why she should have been there at all.
‘Carol came over to pick Sally up one day and asked if I fancied a ride, too.’ She grinned. ‘I went, just out of curiosity.’
Rose glanced at Norma’s profile and grinned back. ‘Yes. I can understand that.’ They certainly had one thing in common.
They pulled up on the verge outside the bungalow. It would be rude to open the gate and drive in. Besides, the wheels would mess up the immaculately raked gravel in the drive. Here we go, Rose thought, praying that she wasn’t about to end up in a situation she would rather have avoided.
CHAPTER FOUR
Doreen Clarke was wiping down the surfaces in her tidy kitchen. She and Cyril regularly ate their main meal of the day at twelve thirty. Since his redundancy he had become a reasonable plain cook and had their food ready to be served when Doreen returned from one or other of her morning cleaning jobs. Once they had eaten she would rinse and stack the dishes then leave them for Cyril to wash after she’d left for work again.
Still clutching the dishcloth, her plump and reddened hand rested on the kitchen table. Driving home earlier she had passed Susan Overton who was on the way to school to collect her daughter, Katy, and take her home for lunch. Susan’s face showed she was still troubled. She had not responded when Doreen tooted her horn.
I mentioned it to Rose, Doreen thought, strange she never commented. ’T’aint like that maid not to speak her mind. She’s usually got an opinion on most things. Doreen realised she would be late if she didn’t leave at once. She turned to Cyril. ‘I’ll be off then, love. See you later.’
Cyril, seated at the table, was reading a paper, his lunchtime glass of brown ale to hand. The kitchen smelt of grilled lamb chops. Their lives had developed a ritualistic pattern. Maybe it was a reaction to the disruption Cyril’s shift work in the mine had caused. He glanced up at his wife and smiled. ‘I’ll be here.’ He didn’t resent preparing her meals. Doreen was now the breadwinner. Although he was more than ten years older than her, he wouldn’t receive his state pension for another four years and the interest from his redundancy payoff didn’t go far. Doreen had always looked after him and the boys in the past and had taken part-time work when they were older. Now it was his turn; what he did went a little way towards repaying her. With the garden and his weekly game of darts and bowls in the summer he was never bored. Bossy, and a bit of a gossip, she might be, but Cyril loved and admired his hardworking wife. Doreen left the bungalow and got into her car, straightening the pleats of her woollen skirt beneath her as she slid into the driver’s seat. She never had nor ever would wear jeans or trousers. Her overall was neatly folded in her bag. I’ll speak to Rose again, she decided. I’m sure she’ll know what I ought to do.
Laura Penfold was annoyed. Trevor had hardly set foot on land before he was off again. First he’d gone fishing. Like many other fishermen he also used a rod and line by way of a hobby and was quite prepared to sit on the beach in all weathers, even throughout a winter’s night in the rain. Having returned without catching anything he had slept for a while before announcing that they needed some spares for the boat and that he was going out to buy them. ‘Which means you’ll call in at the Swordfish on your way home,’ she had added sarcastically to his retreating back, regretting it immediately because if that had not been his intention, he would certainly do so now.
Trevor did not respond. This was no indication of his own mood; he saved his words for when he had something important to say. Laura was the garrulous one.
It was just after four. Trevor might be gone for several hours. ‘Bugger him,’ she said. ‘I’ll see if Rose fancies a drink.’
Ten past four in the afternoon might seem early to be thinking of such a thing but in Newlyn, as in other fishing ports, lives were lived on a different timescale. The pubs were open all day because fishermen who had been at sea for days on end were more than ready for a drink when they landed, even if it was ten thirty in the morning. And the fish buyers would have been up since long before dawn. To such people four o’clock would be the equivalent of eight p.m. to office workers who kept to more regular hours. And there were the early risers like Laura; and Rose, who might already have worked a full day by that time.
Laura tapped out the number and waited. She was disappointed when the answering machine clicked on. Then, over the recorded message, she heard a muffled ‘Damn. Hold on a minute.’ The message stopped playing. ‘Hello?’
‘Hi, there. It’s me.’
‘Sorry about that. I’ve just got in. I couldn’t quite make it to the phone.’
‘Been anywhere exciting?’
‘Exciting, no, but interesting and rather worrying.’
‘Want to tell Aunty Laura all about it over a drink?’
‘That sounds like a good idea.’ As far as she was aware Laura didn’t know of her involvement in Beth’s disappearance. Not a particular fan of radio and television she may not even know that a child was missing. ‘Is Trevor coming?’
‘Bollocks to Trevor. This is girls only.’
Another row, Rose thought, unsurprised. They would make up as quickly as they had fallen out if past form was any guide. It was the pattern of their lives. ‘Where shall we meet?’
‘The Star. I’m on my way, I’ll see you when you get there.’ Laura hung up. She pulled an old duffel coat on over her leggings and chunky sweater, locked the house then walked down the hill through the lanes too narrow for traffic. Hers was a small back-to-back property in one of the lanes off Chywoone Hill. It was the house in which she and Trevor had managed to bring up their three boys, all of whom had left home and moved away to find work. Like most of the old fishermen’s cottages it was built from granite and had no garden, only a yard. The net loft had been converted into a bedroom and the kitchen and bathroom had long since been modernised.
She reached the bottom of the hill and turned left to the Strand where the Star stood opposite the fish market, which was now shuttered. Almost adjacent was the Swordfish, where Trevor would be heading later. There was no guessing how busy the pubs would be at any given time. If most of the boats
had landed or the weather was too rough for fishing they could be crowded by mid-morning and empty again by late afternoon. Conversely, if the weather and tides were right there would be few customers. When Laura walked in there were about twenty people standing around the bar, most of whom she knew. She asked for a house gin and tonic, which meant a double, just as Rose arrived. ‘I think I’ll have the same for a change,’ she said.
They moved away from the bar and stood near a pillar that supported a small shelf upon which they could place their glasses. It was a basic pub with wooden floors and a few tables and plastic covered benches; a place where working men could drink in their overalls and dirty boots without fear of mud or fish scales ruining a carpet or the furniture.
‘What’s up with you and Trevor, then?
Laura tossed back her long, dark, corkscrew curls and sniffed. ‘The usual. I’ve hardly seen him since he’s been back and he’s sailing again tomorrow night.’
Rose did not suggest that it might be a good idea for Laura to be at home for when he did return. It would have been a waste of breath, just as any advice Laura gave Rose concerning Jack would have been.
‘So, tell me about your interesting day.’
‘Did you hear about that little girl that’s gone missing?’
‘Yes. Have they found her yet?’
Rose shook her head sadly before describing her part in it.
‘My God, that’s typical of you. I should’ve known.’
‘There’s more. After I went to see Sally I decided to go and see Norma Penhalligon. She talked me into going to Carol’s place.’
‘The sister? Whatever for? Rose, do I really want to hear this? I mean, what on earth’s Jack going to think?’
Caught Out in Cornwall Page 4
