Caught Out in Cornwall

by Janie Bolitho

  She was in the kitchen when Jack tapped on the window, startling her. ‘I didn’t hear the car.’

  ‘I didn’t bring it. It’s chilly, but dry so I thought we’d walk, and that way you don’t get to drink more than your share of the wine.’ He kissed her. ‘You look nice.’

  ‘Thank you.’ It was as much of a compliment as she could expect from Jack. ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘I’ve booked a table at the Renaissance.’

  ‘Lovely. Well I’m ready. Shall we go?’

  Rose locked up then they walked down the hill, passing the harbour which, because of the suitable weather, was almost denuded of fishing boats, then on past the lighted windows of pubs and cottages. The salvage tug was still there, an oasis of light in the inky water. The clearness of the night meant that the constellations were easily recognisable. It was David who had taught her their various names. Sounds carried across the water in the still air; metal on metal, someone working on a boat, perhaps, and the chug of a trawler out in the bay, its lights just visible as it neared the horizon.

  There were no street lights along the path which ran along beside the beach although, on the other side of the main road from which they were divided by the gardens an orange glow could be seen between the palm trees. On a cloudy night it was hard to tell if anyone was walking towards you but at least it meant it remained unspoiled.

  Jack was quiet; deep in thought. Rose knew he needed time to unwind, that once they were seated and the wine had been poured he would begin to talk. Or she hoped that he would.

  They passed the white walls of the open-air swimming pool, now closed for the winter and for the annual repairs that were always required because of the battering it took from the sea which both surrounded and fed it. They reached Penzance harbour where the Scillonian was being overhauled, along with other large vessels, and came to Ross Bridge. This could be swung open when a ship was coming in to the dry dock. Traffic then had to find an alternative route in and out of the town.

  The Renaissance was a restaurant in the Wharfside shopping centre, which by most standards was small. It was built on two levels; the lower one was opposite the harbour. The upper level, above which were luxury flats, was reached by stairs and an escalator or could be approached directly from Market Jew Street which was much higher up. The Renaissance was on the upper level and had marvellous views.

  They were lucky, their table was in the window and they could see the harbour and the lights around the bay. Jack ordered a bottle of wine. ‘We’d like it straight away, please,’ he told the cheerful young waitress.

  Rose lit a cigarette and waited, wondering how long it would be before Jack felt like talking. For the moment he was busy alternating his gaze between the menu and the specials board on the wall behind him.

  By the time they had ordered Rose’s impatience was beginning to show. She fiddled with the crockery, bit her lower lip and avoided making eye contact with Jack. When she finally looked up he was leaning back in his chair, arms folded, a wide smile on his face. ‘You deserve a medal,’ he said.

  ‘For what?’

  ‘For not asking. Your curiosity, as we all know to our cost, is boundless. I’ve been expecting to be bombarded with questions ever since I arrived to pick you up. Why the sudden reticence?’

  Rose shrugged. ‘I can guess what the past week’s been like for you. I didn’t want to harass you.’

  ‘You do that by merely existing.’

  ‘Well, if you’re going to be like that I …’

  But before she could finish he held up a hand. ‘Whoa. That was supposed to be a joke.’ He was surprised at her reaction; Rose very rarely lost her sense of humour.

  ‘I’m sorry. I really don’t know what’s wrong with me. I suppose it’s because I can’t stop thinking about what happened to Beth.’

  ‘If it makes you feel any better, your information was more than helpful.’ He topped up their wine glasses then leant forward with his arms resting on the table. ‘I spoke to Sally Jones myself. As Norma Penhalligon stated, Beth was wearing her coat when they left the house. There was no lift, no passing motorist, Sally and Beth walked down to the beach together, and alone. Sally swears that Beth had her coat with her, that when she last saw her she was wearing it. She was still wearing it when we found her, therefore, logically, she had to have had it with her when she was taken.’ Jack waited whilst she took this in; he was more than interested in what her response would be.

  ‘No.’ Rose shook her head. ‘No, Jack, that just isn’t so. Beth held up both arms when she asked that man to pick her up. All she had on was jeans, a shirt and a jumper. I swear to you, Jack, she did not have a coat.’

  He had been certain that this was what she would say, but in a few seconds, a very few seconds in which she had no idea that anything was amiss, how could she be so certain of what she had seen? On the other hand, hadn’t she always been able to describe things with accuracy? Her eye for detail was amazing and he trusted it totally. If she was right then where was the coat between the time of Beth’s abduction and when her body was found? He decided to leave it there for the moment, but there was something he wanted to ask Rose to do sometime in the near future.

  ‘What about the boyfriend? Carol’s bloke? Did she tell you his name?’

  ‘Yes. He’s called Marcus Wright. He’s the manager of a shop.’ Jack was not about to tell Rose which one because he wouldn’t put it past her to go there and find an excuse to talk to him.

  ‘And?’

  ‘It would appear he’s innocent, apart from a spot of adultery. We were doubly suspicious when we discovered that he’d taken the week off. It seemed too coincidental that Beth went missing during that time. However, he had hoped to see Carol that day but she’d put him off. Anyway, despite the fact that he wasn’t at work he has an alibi for most of Tuesday; at least, for the relevant period. He and a friend were working on his car. We checked, of course. The friend confirmed this, as did several of Wright’s neighbours who had seen the two men in his garage. Despite the weather they were working with the door open.

  ‘He was amazed and extremely indignant that we thought he was somehow involved. Anyway, he told me that the affair was over, had, in fact, ended last night.’

  ‘Yes, I know.’

  ‘You know? How?’

  Their food arrived. Rose picked up her knife and fork but Jack wanted an answer before he began to eat.

  ‘Geoff Carter told me. He left a message to say that Carol had left him a message – does that make sense? She thanked him and said she had sorted out her problems. I guessed it was that way around. She might be obsessional but she didn’t strike me as the sort of person to just give up and walk away from so much, especially when children are involved.’

  ‘But you half suspect her of murder,’ Jack stated sardonically.

  ‘You’ve always said that everyone’s a suspect until proved otherwise. And I didn’t say I suspected her, I just happened to mention the sibling rivalry and wondered if it was relevant. It was Laura who made me spot it.’

  Jack sighed, wondering whether it was worth the Devon and Cornwall police being in existence. Rose, Geoff, Laura and Doreen all seemed to be as much, if not more in the know than they were. Only Barry Rowe and Arthur seemed to be exempt. Unless, of course, there were things Rose wasn’t telling him. He would not be surprised if this was the case.

  The food arrived; large bowls of homemade soup to start with. ‘Let’s eat before this gets cold,’ Rose said, thus ending the conversation but not the speculation about Bethany Jones. She did not have a coat, Rose was thinking. I know she didn’t. And Jack had already decided that he would ask Rose to have a look at the clothes Beth had been wearing that fateful Tuesday.

  They walked back briskly because it was much colder than when they had set out. The wind was coming from the east. It blew Rose’s hair forwards and into her face. She clasped it and tucked it into the collar of her coat, but it felt good, walking off the meal in th
e clean, crisp air.

  ‘Want to come in for coffee?’ Jack asked when they reached the bottom of Morrab Road, on the corner of which was the Queen’s hotel whose large windows faced the sea. When David was alive, on some winter afternoons they would sit inside with a pot of tea or coffee and slices of moist cherry cake. David would read the paper whilst Rose studied the passing pedestrians and any movement in the bay.

  ‘Yes, why not?’ It had been some time since she had been to Jack’s flat.

  They walked up the hill past the dental practice Rose conscientiously attended every six months; towards Morrab Road and Jack’s flat. It was a place she had always found comfortable, the large rooms and high ceilings appealing to her artist’s eye.

  Once inside they went straight to the kitchen where Jack filled and plugged in the kettle. Unlike Rose’s, his coffee was instant. He had an early start so he did not want anything more to drink in the way of alcohol.

  Now, out of the biting wind and with the heating having been on all evening, Jack felt warm. He took off his jacket and hung it over the back of a chair where it immediately fell to the floor. Wallet, keys, a diary and a photograph fell out.

  It was Rose who bent to pick the things up. ‘Who’s this?’ she asked, holding out the picture.

  When Jack told her she sank back into her chair. Her face was white and her hands shook. She prayed she wasn’t going to vomit. What she had done was truly terrible.

  On that same Monday morning Marcus Wright asked for, and got a transfer to another branch of the shop. There was a vacancy coming up soon in Truro. He didn’t mind where it was as long as it wasn’t Penzance. A true Cornishman, he did not want to leave the county but now it was time for a change.

  No woman had affected him the way in which Carol had done, but it was over, she had made that quite clear and he had no option but to accept it. For the moment he would commute, when the spring came he would put his house on the market and make a totally new start.

  He wondered if he would ever get over Carol. He also wondered whether he would ever get over the fact that he had been considered as a murder suspect. All in all, he was better keeping right away from that family.

  When Sue Overton collected Katy from school on Monday afternoon her face was pale. Yesterday’s trip to Paradise Park had not been the success they had anticipated. Halfway through the afternoon Katy had reverted to her quiet self and not even the colourful tropical birds she loved could cheer her up again.

  On seeing her daughter now, Sue knew the time had come for something to be said. She would mention it, as tactfully as possible, to Simon that night.

  ‘A policeman came to school today,’ Katy was saying.

  Sue’s mouth went dry. Had Katy confided in a teacher instead of herself? ‘Oh? What was that for?’ She hoped her voice sounded normal.

  ‘To talk to us. He said we must never take sweets or money from strangers, and never, ever to go off with someone we don’t know. But I knew that already, Mummy, because you’ve told me.’

  ‘You never have, have you?’ she asked casually, quietly, not wishing to alarm Katy.

  ‘Of course not.’ Her indignant tone told Sue she was telling the truth.

  The day was beginning to turn colder as the wind changed direction and blew up river, but Katy’s hand was warm in hers.

  The pattern of the past few weeks was repeated. Katy said she was hungry then left most of her tea. ‘Would you like uncle Keith to come and stay again?’ The words were out of her mouth before she had time to assess what they might do to Katy. Katy shook her head. ‘Don’t you like him?’ It had been his first visit since Katy’s birth because he had been working overseas as a medical volunteer until recently.

  ‘Yes, I do, but he’s very noisy.’

  It was true. Unlike Simon, Keith was loud and boisterous and seemed to fill any room he was in. Sue decided she could not question Katy further. But why, if she liked him, didn’t she want him to come back? Could you like someone who had abused you? Possibly abused you, she amended mentally.

  When Katy was in bed and Sue was alone with Simon she made some tea and they sat in the lounge drinking it before she started the evening meal. She finally found the courage to speak the words she had been dreading saying. ‘I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but Katy’s only been like this since Keith came to stay.’

  ‘No, I hadn’t noticed.’ He frowned. ‘Just what are you implying, Sue?’

  ‘I’m not sure. It’s probably coincidence,’ she added to soften the blow. She went on to explain Katy’s side of the brief conversation they had had concerning her uncle.

  Simon was rigid in his armchair. ‘If he’s so much as touched her in any way, I’ll kill the bastard.’

  Sue had not expected this reaction; anger, yes, but anger with her for even having suggested such a thing about his brother. ‘But how on earth do we find out?’ Without contacting the police, they had no idea, and the harm that could do might be irrevocable to everyone concerned if they were wrong. If they asked Keith outright he would be bound to deny it, guilty or not, and to ask Katy was impossible.

  ‘We could phrase it very carefully, ask her if he’d cuddled her a lot, something along those lines,’ Simon suggested.

  But by the time they had eaten, watched some television and decided it was time for bed they were no nearer knowing what they ought to do.

  ‘What’s that maid doing out at this time of night?’ Doreen Clarke muttered to herself when she got Rose’s answering machine instead of the person she wanted to speak to. It was nine fifteen. Doreen and Cyril always went to bed at ten. ‘Can you ring me tomorrow, there’s something I want to ask you?’ She’ll know what’s what, that’s for sure, Doreen thought as she went to make the final mug of tea of the day. Rose would have kept to her word, she always did, and Doreen was eager to hear the outcome.

  Seconds before Rose picked up the photograph, Jack was thinking about what PC Roberts had reported back. Roberts had been the man chosen to attend the school and talk to the children. Rose had told him which one Katy Overton attended so it had not been necessary to go elsewhere. A tactful telephone call to the headmaster had ensured a few minutes were made available in the curriculum. Roberts had delivered his talk and said he would be around for a while if anyone felt the need to speak to him. He had then seen each of the teachers in turn because he had been told not to alert Katy’s teacher that they were looking at one particular child. But it was only Katy’s teacher who expressed any concern. She confirmed that the girl had become quieter. ‘She’s fine in the classroom, as bright as ever, and at lunch. But there are times when she’s in the playground or not being supervised that she seems, well, not worried, exactly, but forlorn. And there’s another thing; she doesn’t mix as well as she used to do.’

  ‘Have you spoken to her?’ Roberts had enquired.

  ‘Yes, of course, but she insists there’s nothing wrong.’

  And that was as far as it had gone. However, Jack had taken hope in the fact that Katy’s schoolwork wasn’t suffering. Deterioration was one of the first signs of abuse. If something was wrong then the child wasn’t saying and, according to Rose, her GP had found no cause for alarm. But Doreen Clarke had done so and had therefore confided in Rose knowing that she would pass the information on to himself. And Doreen wouldn’t do that without justification. She might be a gossip but she was not an attention seeker or a troublemaker.

  And then he had taken off his jacket and hung it carelessly over the back of a chair. It was Rose who bent down to retrieve his bits and pieces. ‘Who’s this?’ she asked.

  Jack was puzzled. ‘It’s Beth. Who did you think it was?’ They all had copies of the photograph supplied by Sally Jones, no longer needed now that Beth had been found. Jack had forgotten he still had it. ‘Rose, what is it?’ She looked ill, her face was white as she slumped back into her chair. ‘That’s not Beth.’ She swallowed. ‘I mean, that’s not the little girl I saw.’

  ‘Oh, Christ A
lmighty.’ He rarely blasphemed but the enormity of what Rose had said hit him hard. Surely she had seen the newspapers. But of course, it immediately explained the absence of the coat. Rose’s statement was now worthless. What she had seen was probably an innocent father picking up his own child who, naturally, would go with him willingly. This was a major step backwards, not forwards.

  ‘I’m so sorry, Jack. I’m so very sorry.’ Tears filled her eyes but she brushed them away, angry with herself for wanting to cry, angrier still for having wasted everyone’s time. ‘She fitted the description and she must have been about the same age. And, seeing her picture now, they were very similar, the same colour and length of hair.’ Stop babbling, she told herself, you’ve done enough damage already.

  So Sally had been telling the truth about the coat. What was odd, though, was that although Rose had believed she had witnessed the crime, no one had witnessed the actual one. Beth Jones had disappeared from that beach without anyone noticing, had been taken willingly, or unwillingly without a single person being aware of it.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Geoff Carter had watched the early morning news on television and knew that, out of common courtesy, he must offer his condolences to Carol Harte. She was, after all, Beth’s aunt and the child had now been officially identified. A note did not seem appropriate after she had confided in him so openly and a visit might come across as too personal after what had actually been only a brief acquaintanceship. Never feeling comfortable in such circumstances he decided he would telephone immediately before he lost his nerve.

  The phone rang for a long time. He was about to hang up when she answered.

  ‘Hello.’ The word was softly spoken yet it expressed the depth of her grief and exhaustion. In the background were children’s voices.

  ‘Carol, it’s Geoff Carter. I don’t want to intrude and I really don’t know what to say except how very, very sorry I am.’