Killed in Cornwall

by Janie Bolitho

  ‘Hello, Jack. I’m glad I caught you. There’s something, well, I think I need to talk to you.’

  I bet you do, he thought, angry anew that she had not told him about her mother. She knew how much he liked and respected her parents. ‘Oh?’

  ‘Would it be convenient if I came over?’

  ‘Yes, give me half an hour. I need a shower.’ No point in saying no. He wanted, perhaps needed to hear what she had to say. And he wanted to see her far more than he wanted a solitary drink.

  He heard the doorbell from the back garden where he had taken two chairs. It was too warm to sit indoors.

  Rose stood on the doorstep clutching a bottle of wine, an anxious expression on her face. Without thinking, Jack bent to kiss her. She smelt of the perfume he had bought her and was wearing a dress. This must be serious. ‘I was having a beer but we’ll have the wine if you prefer?’

  ‘I do.’ She followed him into the house.

  ‘Go and sit outside, I won’t be a minute.’ Having seen her he couldn’t understand why he had felt so angry. She had that effect on him. ‘Okay, what do you have to tell me?’

  Rose took a deep breath. For a second she thought he knew about Tony. ‘I’ve promised I wouldn’t say how I found out, you’ll have to respect that, Jack, but it seems that someone I know was missing on the night that Lucy was raped. Added to that, he has a plaster on his hand.’

  She’s gabbling, she doesn’t want to be telling me this. And why is her face red? ‘I see. Am I allowed to know the name of this person?’

  Rose closed her eyes. She felt as if she was betraying both Dave and Eva. ‘Dave Fox, my gardener.’

  ‘Ah, the man about whom you managed to find out so much in such a short time.’

  ‘Are you being sarcastic?’ Rose felt angry, but she was aware her anger was misdirected. It was herself she was angry with for running to him with tales. But it was also the fact that, face to face with him she felt even more ashamed of what had taken place with Tony Boyd.

  ‘No. So shall I go and pick him up?’

  ‘I don’t know what you should do, Jack. I just thought you ought to know.’

  ‘Just like you thought I ought to know that you and Laura were aware of Lucy Chandler’s identity and the fact that she had a boyfriend whose name you knew. It seems to me, Rose, that you only feel I ought to know things when it suits you.’

  She stood and handed him her glass. ‘I knew I shouldn’t have come. It’s always the same. I think I’m being helpful and you turn on me. I can’t help it if people tell me things they won’t tell you. It’s no wonder, if you speak to them the way in which you speak to me.’ Her eyes burned. I’m about to cry, she thought. How bloody ridiculous.

  Jack saw the tears rise and cursed himself. He put his hand on her arm. ‘There’s no need for you to leave. At least drink the wine first. And tell me, Rose, how’s Evelyn?’

  And then she did cry. She had not realised how much emotion she had hidden from her friends and, especially, from her father. ‘She’s all right,’ she finally said. ‘They think she’s over the worst. It was just such a shock. She’s always been so fit and healthy, then suddenly, just like that she was in hospital. She looked so small in that bed, Jack. So small and vulnerable.’

  He reached out and stroked her hair. ‘It’s okay. It sounds as if she’ll pull through.’

  ‘I know. But you should’ve seen Dad. He was pretending he’d be all right whatever happened but I could see what he was going through.’

  He topped up her glass although she’d hardly touched her drink. Tonight there would be no more talk of work. Rose had come to him with information which may or may not be relevant. He would get someone else to deal with that. Now was the time to try to repair any rift between them. ‘Have you eaten?’ She shook her head. ‘Then you have two choices, we can go out or you can chance my cooking?’

  ‘I’m not very hungry.’

  ‘You have to eat. Which is it to be?’

  ‘Your cooking then.’

  ‘I’ll just see what delights the fridge reveals. You stay there.’ He knew what there was to eat but he wanted to make that telephone call out of her hearing. ‘I’m not sure of the best way of approaching this. Perhaps something along the lines that we know he works at various properties in the relevant areas and we wondered if he’d noticed any of these girls. Make sure he knows we’re questioning everyone. If he’s in the clear and thinks we’ve singled him out he’ll have reason to complain. And find out if he’s ever done any work for any of the girls’ parents.’

  Jack returned to the garden. He saw how tired Rose looked and realised the strain she had been under. He would do his best to cheer her up.

  As the sun moved further westwards the garden became cooler. ‘Let’s go inside, supper won’t be long.’ Jack carried their glasses then set to in the kitchen.

  ‘Sorry it wasn’t very exciting,’ he said as he piled the dirty dishes in the sink.

  ‘It was fine.’ The makeshift mixed grill had consisted of his breakfast ingredients: bacon, circles of herb flavoured local sausage cut from a ring, known as hog’s pudding, eggs and mushrooms served with a tin of peas. ‘I think I’ll go home now, Jack. It’s all beginning to catch up on me. I feel exhausted.’

  ‘Want a taxi?’

  ‘Yes, I think I do.’

  Fifteen minutes later Rose paid the driver, let herself into the house and went straight to bed.

  CHAPTER NINE

  ‘What is it?’ Joyce Jago studied her daughter’s face.

  ‘Nothing, Mum. Honestly.’ Sam got up and left the kitchen where she and her mother had been sitting, a slice of toast untouched on her plate. There were only a few classes to attend until the end of term and they seemed so unnecessary now that the exams were over. It would be different this time next year when she would be awaiting the results of her A levels.

  Upstairs she sat on the bed wondering what to do. It had been a mistake to offer to cover for Lucy, and the guilt at what had happened to her friend was eating away at her. And Lucy refused to speak to her, as if it really was Sam’s fault. In the end she had admitted her part to the police but, out of loyalty to her friend, she had not given them Jason’s name. ‘Mum doesn’t like Jason,’ Lucy had told her. ‘The only way I can get to see him is if I say I’m with you.’ Sam had believed her at first but during one of their conversations Lucy had let things slip, things which, on their own didn’t amount to much but which lately had worried Sam.

  She got up and walked across the room to stare at herself in the mirror. Without vanity she realised that she was pretty. Her figure, in jeans and T-shirt, was slim with curves in the right places. Other girls, less attractive than her, had boyfriends, why didn’t she? Lucy always accused her of being too serious, of thinking too much of the future while she wasted her youth. But Lucy had left school and had a job and Lucy had a boyfriend. Sam wanted more than that, she wanted a career, one that was respected and well paid. Perhaps boys her own age sensed that and left her alone. But it was Lucy who had been raped, Lucy who had not been with Jason at the end of the evening. And Sam thought she had an idea why that might be. Go to the police, her conscience dictated, but it might mean real trouble for Lucy and she couldn’t put her through that now.

  She picked up her knapsack, shoved her mobile phone in the bottom of it and left the house without knowing where she was going.

  Joyce Jago heard the front door slam and sighed. Sometimes she wondered what life was all about. Her daughter lived in a world of her own and Ivan was away so often or off playing golf that she hardly seemed to have a family.

  Sam had been questioned by the police but Joyce had not been present. Seventeen was considered old enough not to need an adult in attendance. Sam refused to discuss it with her but Joyce, once she had read the paper and coupled Lucy’s lack of communication with Sam with the article, guessed at the truth. She shuddered to think it might have been her own daughter. If only Ivan wasn’t away again she cou
ld have discussed it with him. The telephone was not the best mode of communication for a heart to heart.

  But I do need to discuss this with someone, she thought, as she tilted Sam’s plate over the waste-bin. The toast landed on top of the remains of the dinner Sam had left last night.

  It was later that morning, as she sat in the secluded back garden of the spacious house Ivan’s job had paid for, trying to capture on paper the mass of flowering clematis which trailed along the fence, that she wondered if Rose Trevelyan would lend a willing ear. She struck Joyce as a person who would be glad to help if it was possible. Joyce smiled at the irony of the situation. Rose was her tutor at the art classes she attended. They were both adults. Normally the situation was reversed and a troubled adolescent would go to her teacher with a problem, especially if it concerned her parents, not the other way around. The next class was tomorrow night but Joyce decided she couldn’t wait any longer and, besides, she didn’t want to discuss what was bothering her in front of the others. She got up, went back inside the house, looked up the number and rang it. There was no reply. Hesitating only a second or so she left a message asking Rose to ring her back. Feeling marginally relieved that she had done something she went back to complete the piece of work Rose had set for them. Natural life, she had said, adding no more, just smiling and allowing her pupils to make their own interpretation of the title. Joyce wondered if anyone would produce a nude and, if so, who they would have got to model for them.

  ‘Hello.’ Rose tried to smile but she was shocked at Lucy Chandler’s appearance. Having only seen her once or twice her memory was of a plump, vivacious brunette who made up for average looks with an infectious smile and plenty of personality. From what Laura had told her Gwen had had problems controlling her, even as a small child. But this was no child. Lucy was seventeen and out at work. This was a young woman who might never trust a man again, who might never smile that wide-mouthed smile that Rose remembered.

  Lucy nodded but did not respond verbally to Rose’s greeting. Gwen Chandler sat at the table, pale but composed. ‘Hello, Rose, Laura said you were coming.’

  Rose sat down. Laura had introduced her to Gwen some time ago but Rose did not really know her any more than she knew the daughter. What do I say? Nice to see you again? Hardly, under the circumstances, and was she supposed to know what those circumstances were? Laura had not said when she telephoned.

  ‘We’ve both taken another week off work. Lucy’s in no state to go back yet,’ Gwen said, making it clear that the subject was not taboo. ‘How are you coping?’

  ‘Not too well.’

  Rose recalled that the husband had left when Lucy was small and, as far as she knew, only kept in touch with his daughter. Gwen, therefore, had to manage on her own. ‘And you, Lucy?’

  Lucy shrugged. Her thick, dark hair hung limply around her shoulders. It needed washing. ‘Not much to cope with, is there? It’s happened, nothing can change that.’

  ‘And you’ve no idea who it was?’ I shouldn’t have said that, Rose thought. Straight in again, no tact.

  ‘No. Don’t you think I’d have named the bastard if I did?’

  Anger, a good sign. Lucy was looking at Rose now. There was colour in her cheeks and a defiant expression on her face. Rose felt Laura’s eyes on her own face. ‘People don’t always,’ Rose said gently.

  ‘You think I’m protecting someone? God, I’m sick of this whole thing. And if it wasn’t for Jason …’ she stopped and put her head in her hands.

  Protecting Jason? From what? Rose wondered. ‘Has he been to see you?’

  ‘No. And I don’t want him to. He won’t want anything to do with me now.’

  ‘I’ve tried to explain that it wasn’t her fault, that she’s nothing to feel guilty about, but she won’t listen. Even the counsellor they sent couldn’t get that through to her. No one deserves that to happen.’ Gwen accepted the coffee Laura was handing around.

  ‘How’s your mum?’ Laura decided no good would come of continuing the conversation.

  ‘The same. Dad thinks they’ll let her out on Saturday.’ Rose wondered what she was doing there. None of them seemed willing to talk. ‘That’s a lovely watch,’ she said as Lucy reached for her cup.

  ‘Yes. It was a present.’

  ‘Jason gave it to her. He’s very generous. I wish you’d let me meet him, Lucy. I won’t bite, you know.’

  ‘It’s too late now.’

  Rose studied the interaction between mother and daughter. It was odd that the latter needed Sam to cover for her if Gwen had expressed a wish to meet Jason. Gwen was trying her best but Lucy’s sullenness seemed contrived. It was an uncharitable thought after what the girl had been through.

  ‘Can we talk about something else? I thought we were coming to see Laura to get us out of the house not to hold an inquisition.’

  Rose was embarrassed. Lucy was right. The problem would not be solved by idle curiosity even if those asking the questions cared. ‘I think I’d better be going. The weather looks as if it’ll hold and I need to get some work done.’ She stood and unhooked her bag from the back of the chair. It was worth one more go. ‘Is there any message for Sam? I’ll be seeing her mother tomorrow evening.’

  ‘Yes. No. No, it doesn’t matter.’

  She needs her friend, Rose thought as she said goodbye, but she’s too proud to admit it. Maybe I’ll mention it to Joyce and leave it to her.

  There was no breeze but even the still, warm air felt fresh after the claustrophobic atmosphere in Laura’s kitchen. So much was not being said. Rose had done her bit, work must come first now. She had already decided not to go far, she would work from the beach. The painting had been planned in her head. Newlyn, with its steeply tiered houses, below them the harbour walls above which the masts of fishing vessels loomed and the sea in the foreground. The composition was perfect.

  The sun moved imperceptibly across the bay, at first warming her shoulders then the side of her face. She worked solidly, unaware of the time which was passing. Finally Rose left the damp canvas on the easel and stood back to study her work, rubbing her stiff back with her hand. It was good. Another oil was well on its way to completion. She could have carried on a little longer but knew that the result of over-extension was staleness. Stop while the going’s good, she told herself. Taking her flask from her bag she sat on the water-smoothed pebbles and thought how lucky she was. After David died she had not believed it possible to ever be happy again but she had come to appreciate loyal friends and her work and, more recently, a small claim to fame. There were so many people less fortunate than herself. Lucy Chandler for one. When the unfinished painting was dry enough to carry without danger of its smudging, Rose walked home.

  Having unpacked her gear and cleaned her brushes she put everything in the larder then went to see if there had been any phone calls in her absence. The light blinked twice. Rose pressed the button and listened. ‘It’s Barry, Rose. Just a quick call to see how your mother’s doing. Oh, and if you’ve got a minute, can I call in after work? If I don’t hear from you I’ll take it you’re busy.’

  The second message surprised her. It was from Joyce Jago, her most talented pupil. Few of them showed any great promise but as long as they enjoyed the classes and working on what they produced in their own time Rose did not see that it mattered. Joyce did not say what she wanted, only that she would be grateful if Rose could return the call. She glanced at her watch. Four-fifty. Joyce might well be at home; Rose had an idea that she worked part-time. She dialled the number given.

  ‘Rose, thank you for ringing back. It sounds silly now but I really didn’t know who else to talk to and my husband’s away on business for a few more days.’

  Rose waited. This was nothing to do with the evening class. What was expected of her now?

  ‘It’s about Sam really.’

  I’ve been here once today, Rose thought, memories of the awkward morning returning. Lucy and now Sam. Again. Whatever made people think she w
as equipped to deal with teenage girls? ‘Has something happened? Is she ill?’

  ‘No. It’s just the way she’s been acting ever since the police came. Oh dear, I’ll have to go now. I’m sorry, I really shouldn’t have bothered you.’

  ‘No, wait.’ Rose had heard a door close in the background and guessed correctly that Sam had come home unexpectedly.

  ‘I usually go for a walk about half-past five. Could you manage that?’ Damn, I forgot about Barry, she thought. Whatever he wanted would now have to wait.

  ‘Yes, I can. Shall I meet you somewhere?’

  They agreed to be by the bandstand in Morrab Gardens at a quarter to six. Rose had time to change out of her paint-splattered clothes and ring her father before she set off. He was no longer spending every minute at the hospital, he had told her, it was tiring for him and for Evelyn. Satisfied that her mother’s condition was improving and that June Potter, their neighbour, was keeping an eye on her father, Rose hung up.

  She left the house grateful to be unencumbered by her canvas satchel or her photographic equipment. Walking briskly, enjoying her daily exercise, she reached Morrab Gardens with time to spare. Sitting on one of the seats by the bandstand she watched the birds flit between the trees and studied the sub-tropical plants, most of which were now in flower.

  Joyce Jago arrived five minutes late, a little breathless from hurrying. She was a plump woman of about forty with permed blonde hair, a lived-in face and a careworn expression. Even so she was attractive although in a sensual rather than traditional way. ‘Thanks for coming, Rose. I couldn’t ask you to my place because I never know when Sam’s going to be there.’