by Will North
PENWARREN HAD, TO his surprise, a good night. He’d also called the hospital and got word that Beverly, though still in critical condition and heavily sedated, was stable. There was a bounce in his step when he strode into the incident room for the Friday MCIT meeting.
Taking a seat at the big conference table, he said, “Let’s see where we are today. Who wants to start?”
Calum raised a hand, but just then the door flew open, hitting the wall behind it. Detective Chief Superintendent Malcolm Crawley had arrived, resplendent in his usual bespoke suit, spit-polished brogues, a black overcoat draped, as if carelessly, across the back of his shoulders. He stopped at the threshold, scowling.
“Jesus, Penwarren, do you understand that it’s a two hour drive to get down here from Exeter for a bloody 9:00 am meeting?!”
Penwarren flashed his brightest smile, but did not rise. “So you’ve said before, as I recall. Welcome, Malcolm.” Crawley did not like to be addressed by his first name, which was why Penwarren so often did.
“On the plus side, sir,” Morgan piped up, grinning, “Not much traffic coming south at that hour.”
Crawley glared at her. There was no free chair at the table. He waited. Novak pulled one out from one of their desks. They made room and he finally sat.
“As usual, Penwarren, this looks like another of your cases has gone balls up. No progress on the dead man in the mire—what is it, three weeks—and now these shootings. What the hell’s going on, dammit?!”
Crawley liked to end sentences with dammit. It made him sound leaderly and serious, when about the only thing he took seriously was his own advancement.
“When are these new shootings going to be announced, or is that something else you’re going to cover up for as long as possible, like that Lugg fellow? There needs to be a press conference.” Crawley loved press conferences, despite the fact that they often made him look uninformed and out of the loop which, of course, he typically was.
“The shootings, Malcolm, were just yesterday afternoon. We’re still investigating, and my team are here to report. Would you call that covering up?”
“Then let’s get on with it.”
“Right, then. Calum, you’d just begun when our guest arrived.”
“Superintendent, dammit,” Crawley said to the surface of the birch tabletop, “not guest.”
“Thank you, boss,” West said, making it clear he was referring to Penwarren. “Here’s where we are right now. The rifle used in the shooting and taken into evidence has only one set of prints, Randall Cuthbertson’s. As a licensed target shooter, his prints are in the system. Absolutely no sign anyone else handled it or wiped any of it. Bullet found at the scene is a .22 mm rimfire, typical target shooting ammo.”
“Cuthbertson and his wife are shooting club members at the Millpool Range near Cardinham,” Penwarren explained to his boss. “It’s just north of here, at the edge of Bodmin Moor.”
“I bloody well know where Cardinham is.”
Penwarren doubted this. “Carry on, Calum.”
“That’s the same caliber as the bullet that Truro A and E dug out of Jan Cuthbertson’s shoulder. The hospital sent it over last night. It’s in evidence now, too.”
“Good work. Anything else?”
“Yes, sir. Rafe and the rest of my team have been all over the Davidstow house. Place looks barely even occupied. But they did find more prints.”
“Where the hell is this Davidstow?” Crawley demanded.
“Big moorland estate adjacent to the Cuthbertson’s land.”
“And the Cuthbertsons got shot there? What were they all doing there? Afternoon tea party gone pear-shaped?”
“I think we might know a bit about why, Superintendent Crawley.” West said.
“The other prints?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And? Must I pull teeth?”
“There are four distinct sets of prints,” West continued. “Three sets in the downstairs sitting room: mine, Morgan’s, and the owner’s. We interviewed him there last week.”
“And the fourth set?” Penwarren asked, certain he knew the answer.
“Jan Cuthbertson’s…um, all over the oak four poster bed upstairs, among other places. And of course, O’Dare’s.”
“Who’s this O’Dare, when he’s at home?”
“The owner. Or at least the occupant,” Penwarren answered. “Alleged Irish property developer. Only he’s not at home, Malcolm. He’s fled. We assume back to the Republic. Had a small private plane at the old aerodrome just a mile away from his estate. Left the victims bleeding in the courtyard and was gone by the time we all got there. Calum’s team are searching the hanger this morning, but there is little question it was used for drugs packaging.”
Crawley held his head, his hands pressed against his ears, as if he didn’t care to hear any more. “Jesus bloody Christ. How am I going to explain this to Exeter?”
Which Penwarren understood him to mean, How am I going to escape responsibility for this one?
“How about the truth, Malcom? Because there’s more. Much more.”
The mobile on Penwarren’s standing desk buzzed and danced. He excused himself and picked it up, turning to the windows. It was the hospital. He took a deep breath, but the text wasn’t about Beverly: Patient Jan Cuthbertson conscious and sitting upright. Receiving only pain meds. Taking food. His shoulders relaxed. Taking his seat again, he said, “Morgan, you and I need to get to Treliske. Jan Cuthbertson is awake.”
“Now?” Crawley protested.
“Yes, sir. She’s the only one who knows what happened yesterday afternoon. He looked across the table: “Terry, get on to Superintendent Dunleavy in Cork again. Find out if he’s got anywhere since yesterday afternoon.”
“Cork? Dunleavy?” Crawley sputtered.
“We’ve been in touch with the Garda in the Republic. Information provided them by friends in the Met’s terrorism intelligence unit suggest Lugg may have been a drugs distributor in Cornwall for the New IRA. We are trying to confirm that. It will be in my report, sir.”
Crawley, for a change, was speechless.
“Anyone else before we leave?”
Novak lifted a hand.
“Adam?”
“I checked the Council tax data base. O’Dare isn’t Davidstow’s owner of record.”
“Not again...”
“Yes, sir. Celtic Property Development Ltd.”
“Of course.”
“If I may make a suggestion?” Adam continued. “We know within a few minutes when O’Dare took off from the aerodrome. Perhaps we could access real time satellite imagery of the coast and at least learn his direction?”
“What would it take?”
“There are private companies with their own satellites now, but they mostly track weather patterns. I doubt they would have the resolution we’d need.”
“Who would?”
“The MOD, I should think, boss.”
Penwarren turned to Crawley. “I reckon a request to the Ministry of Defense is above my pay level, Malcolm. Do you think you could weigh in with Commissioner Samperton and ask her to make a request to the Home Office?”
Crawley blinked several times, as if struggling to take this in. “Are you issuing assignments to me, Penwarren?”
“Only if you wish to have a significant, possibly pivotal role in breaking this case,” he answered. “Sir.”
Penwarren could almost see the light come on in Crawley’s brain. “Meanwhile, and with your permission, I need to get to the Royal Cornwall Hospital.” He rose. “Morgan, you’re with me. My car.”
Crawley pushed his chair back. “I’m coming too.”
“With respect, sir, you’re not. Your task is more important. Also, Jan Cuthbertson is my former niece. She trusts me. Your rank would only intimidate her. And Morgan’s interviewed her before.”
“Plus, his car’s only a two-seater,” Morgan added, grabbing her coat from the row of hooks along the wall by the door of the incident room.<
br />
Forty-Two
THEY FOUND JAN in a reclining chair staring out her window, a shaft of sun burnishing her matted hair. It promised to be a clear, cold day.
“Visitors, Miss,” her nurse said. Without thinking, she turned to see and winced in pain.
“Artie. And Detective Davies. Hello.”
“How do you feel, Jan?” Penwarren asked.
“I’m still a little dopey, to be honest, but I know you need to talk to me and I want to help.”
Curled up in the chair, she looked to Penwarren like an adolescent again, not the officious young woman she’d lately become.
The nurse pivoted her chair to face them. “We’ll have walkies after this, Miss. We want you to be moving normally as soon as possible.”
Morgan took a visitor’s chair and pulled her notebook from her handbag. Penwarren leaned against the windowsill. Jan’s eyes reddened and she raised her good hand to cover them. She sighed and winced again.
“Oh, Artie, I’ve been such a fool. And the nurse says Mum is struggling.”
“Abdominal surgery last night. But I checked this morning. Her condition is stable. They think she’ll make it.”
“My father?”
“He’ll recover—at least from his concussion.”
She brushed tears away. “I had no idea he was so far gone. We never speak. He doesn’t have long to live, does he?”
“No. But I don’t know how long. I suspect when he’s discharged from here, he’ll be taken directly to a specialist care home.”
“You know how he’s always treated me, but it’s sad nonetheless.” She looked up. “I don’t know where to begin, Artie.”
“Why don’t you tell me what happened yesterday. You’re the only conscious witness. Then we can backtrack, if you have the strength.”
She squeezed her eyes closed and then opened them.
“I showed up unannounced. That was forbidden. But he’d made me his business partner and I thought I had the right. Apparently I didn’t. He punished me.” She began crying again. “Artie, he basically raped me. Right there in the courtyard. Up against his Rover. Next thing I know Randall is there on his horse. With that rifle. Mum said he’d lately been calling me a ‘traitor.’ I guess somehow he figured out what was going on. I haven’t a clue how.”
Penwarren wondered if Bishop had said something. He’d have to haul the man back for a talk.
“You said ‘business partner’.”
She nodded. “What is today, Friday? It was this past Monday. We were, um, together at Davidstow. He said he had a proposition for me, delivering drugs to distributors around Cornwall. I was to get a cut of the sales. At first I was shocked. He told me he’d made all his money as a developer in Ireland. I had no idea dealing drugs was why he was in Cornwall. But then, I don’t know, the whole idea felt exciting. Weirdly romantic, even, doing it for him.” She shook her head. “And frankly, I needed the money. Randall is supposed to pay me for managing the moorland and he did for a while, then stopped. No explanation. Then, I discovered Poldue isn’t doing well. Mum slips me pocket money, but I missed getting paid. So on Tuesday, following his instructions, I made the deliveries and collected the cash. Bags of the stuff. I have no idea how much, but a lot. And honestly, it was thrilling. I felt so alive doing something so completely wrong. Criminal, for God’s sakes! Good Lord…
“But I learned something that day from one of the dealers, an older woman. In Redruth. ‘Where’s the big bloke?’ she asked. I had no idea what she was talking about.”
It didn’t surprise Penwarren. “Let me ask this. Do you think you could identify this older woman? In a lineup perhaps?”
“I’m almost certain I could.”
“What about the others?”
“Perhaps. One of the others, definitely. Younger man, well dressed. That exchange was in a bakery in Penzance. The woman behind the counter called him Michael.”
Her head fell back against the padded chair.
Penwarren saw it. “It’s time we let you rest, Jan. Morgan, would you let her nurse know?”
Morgan left, knowing full well Penwarren wanted private time with Jan. Now he knelt in front of the girl and touched her knee. “As soon as you’re discharged, we’ll need you to come to the Bodmin Hub to make a formal statement. Will you be able to do that?”
“Of course, Artie. Tomorrow, if they let me out. Will I be charged? For being a courier?”
“I may have no choice. But you won’t be taken into custody. Later, if this goes to trial, you’ll be expected to testify. Beyond that, it will be up to the Crown Prosecution Service lawyers and a judge. But somehow, given the circumstances, I doubt they’d put you away.” He patted her knee gently: “And I’ll be there with you, Jan.”
She smiled thinly, as if to do so also hurt. “I think you always have been. I just turned stupid at some point. And now both my parents are in hospital because of me. I am so sorry.”
MORGAN DROPPED INTO the Healey’s bucket seat. The leather complained. “Jesus,” she mumbled, “what a stupid cow. Love? Lust?”
Penwarren looked at her as he pulled the car out into the road, heading to the A390. “You’ve never done anything stupid in your youth, Morgan?”
She chuckled. “No. I waited until I was an adult. Married a cop, but finally wised up. But here’s what I don’t understand, boss. O’Dare’s practically old enough to be her father! What’s the attraction?”
“Other than the aforementioned lust?”
“Okay, I’ll give you that.”
“I think you just gave us the answer.”
“Huh?”
“Father figure. Got neither love nor respect from her own. Plus, the guy was handsome and fit for his age, you said. That’s a powerful combination for a neglected girl. And, lust aside, I still think of her as a girl.”
“You care for her a lot.”
“I never had a child. Maybe she’s the closest thing.”
“Then there’s the mother. You care for her a lot, too, I think.”
He twisted the roadster through the roundabout and sped onto the A30 for Bodmin, moving immediately to the dual carriageway’s passing lane.
“Yes, he said finally, flipping on the overdrive toggle. “Yes, I suppose I do.”
Morgan said nothing and watched the green fields flash by.
BISHOP SAT ON a straight chair at a small table in Interview Room 2 at the Bodmin Hub. Novak stood beside him, a hand on the old man’s shoulder. Penwarren had called from the road to have him collect Bishop.
Morgan entered, shook Bishop’s hand, and sat at the table opposite him. “I’m sorry to have pulled you away from home this afternoon, Mr. Bishop. We have just one or two questions for you. You won’t be here long and Adam will take you home again.”
“Missus’ll be ‘spectin’ me for tea soon.”
Morgan smiled. She hadn’t heard dinner referred to as “tea” since her childhood in Wales.
“This time, Mr. Bishop, we will be chatting on the record. Adam here will be taking notes. But please understand that you are not in any trouble at all. I want to be clear about that. Okay?”
Bishop nodded. His hands were clasped in his lap.
“Now, sir. Do you remember that Adam and I first met you at the Old Inn at St. Breward?”
“My local, that is. You stood me a pint. Very kind.”
“And we talked for a while about your long history working for the Cuthbertsons at the Poldue estate?”
“Many years I bin there; ‘ard to say ‘ow long. Before tha’ daughter were born, I reckon.”
“You watched her grow into the fine woman she’s become today.”
Another nod. “Missus and me never was blessed with children.”
“I understand. So Jan was special?”
“’allus were ta me.”
Morgan smiled. “Now, do you also recall when we chatted at the Old Inn we talked a bit about her? She’s all grown up now, and I asked if she ever had men callers.
”
“Not my business,” he answered shaking his head and holding his palms out as if in refusal.
“So you said then, as I recall. Adam, is that your recollection too?”
“Yes, ma’am, it is.”
“But you hinted there might be someone you’d seen come and go. And when you got up and left us you said, ‘foreigner.’ Do you recall saying that?”
“Don’t rightly remember…”
“Mr. Bishop, it has suddenly become important for you to remember, because I have some sad and shocking news for you. Ronald Cuthbertson shot his daughter Thursday afternoon.”
Bishop’s mouth fell open. He put his hands over his eyes as if to un-see what Morgan had just said.
“He also shot Mrs. Cuthbertson, sir.”
Bishop leapt from his chair, knocking it backward. Novak steadied him. “No! No! Tha’ can’t be! Never! They’re dead?!”
“No, sir. Grievously wounded but in the Royal Cornwall Hospital. Both have been through surgery.”
The old man’s legs seemed to liquify and he slumped. Adam caught him and helped reseat him.
“I told you the old man’s mind ‘as gone.” He muttered. “I saw it, I did. Fast, it’s happened. But this…I ‘canna take it in!”
Morgan, being Morgan, went in hard before Bishop could recover. “The shootings happened in the forecourt of Davidstow Manor.” She paused. “We’re wondering why Randall Cuthbertson went there. We’re wondering how he knew about Jan and the ‘foreigner’.”
Bishop dropped his forehead to the tabletop and clasped his hands behind his neck to hold it there.
“Oh, Sweet Jesus: It’s all my doin’.” When he finally lifted his head, there were tears on his cheeks.
Novak knelt beside him. ‘What are you saying, uncle?”
Bishop looked at the ceiling. “It were weeks ago. I were movin’ sheep from commons to their in-bye fields. ‘Allus do when autumn comes and the moor is spent, like. He shows up on his horse. ‘Where’s Jan?’ he says. ‘Baint her job, movin’ sheep, I says. He looks around like he don’t ‘ere me, you ken? ‘Where’s Jan,’ he says again. Maybe visiting friends? I says. ‘Doesn’t have any,’ he says. He’s still lookin’ over the moor like she might be there ‘an all. She’s a grown woman. Of course she has friends, I says. Seen her at the Sun Inn with old school chums, I have, and sometimes that neighbor over Davidstow way. Old man hears that and he yanks his horse around. ‘Fuckin’ traitor!’ he shouts over his shoulder, crazy like, and gallops off home. And I don’t know what he’s on about. Crazy.”
