‘Maybe. But I think I ought to try for office or shop work.’
‘No. Never. Never do anything you don’t want to, Eva, that’s where I went wrong. We’re all right, we’ve enough money to keep us. You’ll know when the right thing comes along. Now let’s cheer up.’
They finished the cider and got into bed. Lying with her arms around him, Eva told Dave she had been to see Rose Trevelyan. ‘I wish I could be like her. She seems so sensible and she’s doing a job she really loves; you can tell by the way she talks about her work. And she can please herself when she works, and all that time spent out of doors, it must be wonderful.’
‘But she probably had some money behind her when she started, Eva. Very few artists make enough to live on. She’s a widow, I expect there were pensions or insurance policies. Please don’t worry, something will turn up.’
Eva sighed. If only she had a talent like that. She was too tired and too relieved to think about it further. She closed her eyes and waited for sleep.
Lucy Chandler had been persuaded to join some friends for a drink on Friday evening. ‘I don’t want to go,’ she told her mother. ‘I know it’s stupid but I keep thinking he’s out there waiting for me.’
Gwen feared the same although it was irrational, unless, of course, Lucy did know who it was. ‘You’ll be with people you know, just make sure you stick with them. And, whatever you do, get a taxi home. And Lucy, don’t you think it’s time you rang Sam?’
Lucy nodded. She felt bad about that but had been too ashamed on two counts to face her. ‘I’ll do it in the morning. She’ll probably be out herself on a Friday night.’
Gwen left it at that. It was enough that Lucy was going out. She had not left the house without her mother since the awful night of the rape. Gwen had decided that she must return to work on Monday, that things had to seem normal even if they weren’t.
Lucy’s friends had arranged to call for her. There were two of them. Neither questioned her on her absence from work or social events which led her to believe that they must have guessed the truth, and she was grateful for their silence. She was shaking by the time they reached the Longboat, a pub at the bottom of the town. It was crowded and noisy, the music making it hard to be heard. Getting there at all had been an effort and she knew she could not face going on to a club later. But she decided to stick it out for a while.
As they made their way to the end of the bar where there was more space, Lucy saw Jason huddled in a corner with a girl she didn’t know. His arm was across her shoulders, his face was close to hers as he said something. Lucy realised she was not jealous but pleased. Jason Evans was a thing of the past. One of her friends who had known him since schooldays had seen him and went over to say hello.
Rose watched the dusk follow the setting sun over the bay. Lights came on around the coastline and the large ship anchored in the bay was lit up like a cruise liner. How can such awful things happen in such a beautiful place, she asked herself. And how come so many people I know seem caught up in this nastiness? Dave and Eva, trying to begin a new life, had already had two setbacks. She hoped they would survive them. Rod and Daphne, also trying for a new start, were not being given the chance to leave the past behind them. Perhaps no one could ever escape it. I haven’t, she realised, David will always be a part of me no matter where I go or what I do. He helped to make me what I am.
Feeling slightly melancholy, she put on a CD. Lively trad jazz came loudly through the speakers. She switched on the table lamps and went to pour a glass of wine. Tomorrow was Cyril’s birthday. Rose suddenly remembered that she hadn’t invited anyone to go with her, not that it mattered, she was quite happy to go alone. It wasn’t much after ten, not too late to ring Barry, but there was no answer. She tried Jack’s number. He was at home. ‘I know it’s short notice,’ she began before offering the invitation.
‘I could do with a change of scene. What time does it start?’
‘Early. Half six. You know Cyril and Doreen, they’re up before sunrise.’
‘Were you thinking of driving?’
‘Not really. We can get the bus over and a taxi home.’ Few trains stopped at Hayle.
They arranged a time to meet but before Jack could hang up, Rose asked what had happened to Dave Fox.
‘How did you know we questioned him?’
‘I saw Eva.’
There was a few seconds silence. ‘Look, Rose, I’d rather, oh, blast it.’ He could hardly tell her who she could socialise with. And this time he was sure she wasn’t in danger, the man they were looking for liked teenage girls. He knew she wouldn’t stop asking questions, it was the way she was made and if he said as much she would become more stubborn than ever. ‘We’ve let him go. For the moment. It’s just too much of a coincidence that he’s been involved, however obliquely, in two investigations.’
‘Jack, I …’ but Rose thought better of voicing her suspicions of Lucy Chandler over the telephone. What she had to say could wait. Jack finding Nichola Rolland’s killer was far more important.
‘Rose?’
‘It’s nothing. I’ll see you tomorrow.’ She sat down to finish her glass of wine and picked up a new library book from the pile. Underneath was one she had finished. She frowned, trying to recall what it was about the plot that had set her thinking. It can’t have been important, she decided as she opened a biography of Charlotte Brontë. But whatever it was kept niggling at the back of her mind and prevented her from concentrating on what she was reading. She went to find the list of names. Once more she studied it. Something was wrong, something didn’t quite fit, but she just couldn’t decide what it was.
Doreen Clarke went off to do her Saturday morning shopping wearing a plain cotton skirt and blouse. She had never taken to wearing jeans or trousers which would not have flattered her dumpy shape, not even for work. She would be home in plenty of time to prepare some snacks and shower and change. Cyril would spend the day in the garden, leaving it until the last minute before showering.
At six o’clock all was ready. Doreen looked with pleasure at the plates of food set out in the kitchen and the bowls of flowers in the living-room, flowers which Cyril had chosen carefully. The scent of roses filled the room.
It had been a muggy start to the day. The mist, thick enough to wet the skin, had hung low and heavy until mid-morning when the pale lemon globe of the sun had shown thinly through the moisture and fingers of sunlight had penetrated its layers. Now the sky was a clear blue. Doreen stood in the kitchen doorway enjoying the earthy smell of the garden and the piquancy of the tomato plants which Cyril had just watered. She had changed into a summer dress of pale blue cotton with sprigs of pink flowers. It suited her, enhancing her clear complexion and bringing out the blueness of her eyes. A car stopped outside. She heard voices and realised the first of her guests had arrived. She walked down the side of the bungalow to the front.
‘Good to see ’e, maid,’ she said, kissing Rose on the cheek. Beside her stood the tall, handsome Inspector Pearce who Doreen hoped would marry her friend one day. ‘Come on in and have a drink. Cyril will be with us in a moment.’ From the bathroom next to the main bedroom the sound of running water had finally stopped.
Rose placed the bottle she had bought alongside others on the work surface. ‘My goodness, how many people are you expecting?’ Rose asked, wide-eyed, when she saw the amount of food that had been prepared.
‘Just a few. Excuse me.’ Someone was ringing the doorbell.
At that moment Cyril appeared, freshly shaved and smartly dressed although the ingrained soil would never wash from his hands no matter how hard he scrubbed.
‘This is for you.’ She handed Cyril the card and present. ‘You shouldn’t have,’ he said as he opened the card. It contained a simple birthday greeting. Rose knew he would not have appreciated a humorous or lewd card. His pleasure was evident as he unwrapped the small watercolour. ‘That’s real ’ansome,’ he said, unsure whether to kiss her. ‘We’ll hang that in the li
ving-room.’
Rose smiled. He would see more of it if he hung it in his potting shed.
By seven o’clock all of the guests had arrived. There were eleven people in total, which was about as many as the bungalow could comfortably hold. Rose knew only the Clarkes, Jack and Nathan Brown. It was Jack who raised his glass and proposed a toast to Cyril, who blushed and looked embarrassed. ‘Here’s to the next decade,’ he added, smiling at the surprise on Rose’s face. She had had no idea it was his sixtieth birthday; she had imagined him to be the same age as Doreen. His face was lived-in and weatherbeaten but he moved and walked like a much younger man. Perhaps all those years in the mine and now the gardening had kept him fit. She and Jack made conversation with Cyril’s friends, most of whom had also been miners. Later, when Rose went outside to get some fresh air and to smoke a cigarette, Doreen joined her. ‘I heard about Dave Fox. I didn’t like to say anything to Jack, but why are they persecuting him?’
Rose never understood just how Doreen managed to know everything that went on within the area. ‘I think it’s a case of bad luck, of being in the wrong place at the wrong time.’
‘He’d never hurt a fly, that one. And they haven’t found who strangled that poor chile yet. It’s a disgrace, that’s what I call it. I know what I’d do to ’en if I got my hands on ’im.’
‘What would you do?’
Neither of them had heard Nathan approach. He looked better than the last time Rose has seen him but it would be a very long time before he adjusted to living alone.
‘It wouldn’t be ladylike to tell you,’ Doreen said. ‘Now, you have a chat with Rose while I make sure everyone’s got enough to eat and drink.’
Rose, for once lost for words, had no idea how to initiate a conversation with Nathan. Out of desperation she asked ‘What do you make of it all?’
Nathan looked at his highly polished shoes. ‘Girls shouldn’t be out on their own at night. It isn’t safe.’
‘But it was daylight, at least when the first two were attacked.’ She was shocked at his attitude. His views might have been expected from a much older male but Nathan was barely forty. But Doreen had told her of the strong religious views his mother had held. No doubt her influence was strong. ‘How are you managing?’ she asked, to change the subject and cover her own reaction.
‘As well as possible. I’ve got to find something to do, I’ve got too much time on my hands now. I didn’t realise how much of the day was spent running around after Mother.’
She sensed belated resentment in his tone. Had he realised he had wasted most of his life? Or was the resentment for what his mother had made him?
Jack came out to rescue her. ‘You haven’t eaten,’ he said handing her a plate filled with food. ‘And your glass is empty. Nathan, can I get you another beer?’
‘Thank you.’ He handed Jack his glass and they both followed him back into the kitchen.
‘He doesn’t have a lot in the way of social graces,’ Jack commented when Nathan left, the first to go home.
‘I know, but it’s hardly surprising given the life he’s led. At least he came. Do you think we should make a move?’
‘Yes. Let’s walk up to the Cornish Arms and order a taxi from there.’
‘We’re off now, Doreen. Thank you for a lovely evening.’ Rose turned to wish Cyril all the best then picked up her handbag.
‘Oh, Rose, dear, I forgot. You wouldn’t drop this in to Nathan on your way, would you.’ Doreen had packed up some of the food which had been left, which was almost as much as had been consumed. ‘He can have it for his croust tomorrow.’
‘Of course.’ They had to pass the house on their way to the pub.
‘You know the number?’
‘Yes.’
Jack carried the bag and they walked the short distance to what had once been Phyllis Brown’s house. Rose lifted the plaited bronze knocker and let it fall. It was more than a minute before Nathan answered the door. He looked puzzled, as if, for a second, he did not recognise them.
‘Doreen asked us to come.’
‘There’s some bits and pieces left over,’ Jack added, handing him the bag of food.
‘I’ll thank her in the morning.’ The door was closed before they could say anything else.
Jack raised his eyebrows and smiled at Rose. ‘That’s the first man I’ve encountered who hasn’t fallen for either your charm or your beauty. I like that painting of the estuary, by the way. It’s not one I’ve seen before.’
‘I did it ages ago.’
‘What’s up?’ Jack asked as they made their way to the pub.
‘Nothing.’ But Rose was thinking Nathan hadn’t wasted time since his mother’s death. There had been no television in the house when Phyllis was alive, she had considered it to be a corrupting influence although, for some reason, the radio held no such dangers. Rose had seen through the net curtains the flickering of a screen although the volume must have been turned down because the windows were not double-glazed and no sound had been heard from the doorstep even when Nathan opened the door. Odd, though, that ghostly flickering.
They had time for one drink before their taxi arrived. To Jack’s surprise Rose gave her address. Normally he would have been dropped off first.
They went into the house together. ‘Put the kettle on, Jack, I just want to look at something.’
He did so then went to the sitting-room. ‘We’re going to watch television?’ She was studying the relevant page of the Western Morning News.
‘No, of course not.’ But her question had been answered. There were no black and white films on television that evening. ‘I was curious about something.’
‘When aren’t you? And you know what curiosity did.’
Before she could come out with a suitable retort, Jack kissed her. I hope you’re wrong, Jack, she thought as she kissed him back.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Jack had left Rose’s house early on Sunday morning. Even though she usually took Sundays off she had hinted, quite strongly, that she didn’t want to waste the excellent light. He also sensed something was troubling her, something which he knew she would refuse to discuss with him, because he could read her moods. There had been a slight coolness between them when he left. ‘I ought to be used to it by now,’ he told himself as he drove to Camborne on Monday morning. He had spent Sunday lunchtime in the pub then gone home for a doze in front of the television regretting his stupidity in wasting the day.
There were two things which puzzled him. Why did Dave Fox’s name keep cropping up and what, if anything, did Rod Hill have to do with things? There was no proof he had had an affair with an under-age girl, only her say-so and that had been retracted. It could, however, still be true. I’ll speak to him myself, he decided. Both Fox and Hill were relative newcomers to the area and the crimes had taken place since their arrival.
The officers from Plymouth were still working alongside them on the case but it was only a matter of time before another murder required their presence elsewhere. The attacks seemed to have been planned, each taking place where there were no houses and, in the latter two incidents, where there was no road to allow a witness to pass. Would Fox or Hill have this local knowledge? But whoever was guilty must have followed the girls, they surely couldn’t have happened across three females on their own by chance.
He completed a few bits of outstanding paperwork then rang Rod Hill to see if he was at home. A few minutes later Jack was back in his car.
Laura Penfold bitterly regretted her decision to look after a neighbour’s dog for the weekend. It was a large, shaggy mongrel which seemed to fill her cottage and which also seemed determined to trip Trevor up every time he moved.
‘Can’t you do something with that bloody thing?’ he’d demanded on Sunday morning when the dog, whose name, for some reason, was Petesy, rested its paws on the kitchen table and tried to take a slice of Cornish hog’s pudding from Trevor’s breakfast plate. He tapped it on the nose with his knife and co
ntinued to eat.
‘It’s only until tomorrow,’ Laura told him. ‘It’s the first break they’ve had for ages, and they could hardly miss their son’s wedding. He’ll be gone by lunchtime then we can do something together.’ Trevor was right, she should have refused. Petesy was loveable but had never been disciplined. And he needed walking twice a day. Laura hadn’t been able to go out with Trevor the previous evening because she had no idea what Petesy might do in her absence. This had led to one of the numerous arguments which had punctuated their marriage since the days of their honeymoon.
‘This is the very last time,’ she told Petesy as she fastened his lead on Monday morning. In jeans and a striped top she set off to walk him. Her hair was held high on her head in a towelling band. Trevor, watching from the doorway of their home, could not help smiling at Laura’s bouncing corkscrew curls as she tried to keep up with the dog who was pulling at its lead. He knew she would not let it off the lead in case it failed to return when she called. That’ll teach her, he thought as he went in to study the sports pages of the Sunday paper, a treat he kept until he could be sure of no interruptions.
Laura reached the Promenade for the third morning in succession. There she encountered other dog walkers who were up and about early. Some had started speaking to her, imagining she was as enamoured of the shaggy dog as they were of their own pets. To avoid them she turned into Morrab Road and then went through the gate to the gardens. Ahead was a figure she recognised. ‘Lucy,’ she called.
Lucy turned around. Her face was pale but her eyes had lost their dull, lifeless expression. Within seconds Laura had caught her up as she was half-dragged up the slope by Petesy. ‘Sit,’ she ordered firmly.
Petesy stared at her, tongue lolling and then, surprisingly, did as he was told. ‘How are you?’
‘Not too bad really. I’m going back to work today. I can’t avoid it for ever, and Mum’s gone back, too. I just wish they’d find him, Laura. I’m looking over my shoulder all the time.’
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