by Carola Dunn
“Only that the fog’s thick right up and down the coast, so they won’t be able to start searching yet. I don’t know about Kalith Chudasama’s condition. Jocelyn’s going to ring the hospital later, hoping they’ll be willing to give information to her in her semi-official capacity.”
“She should have the vicar ring in his official capacity. With her standing at his elbow to remind him what he’s asking about. Sorry, I’ve got to get back to the paint before it starts to dry out. Took me an age to get exactly the right shade.”
“I’ll see you later. Thanks for having Teazle.”
“She’s welcome, anytime. By the way, don’t let her kid you: She’s had breakfast already.”
Eleanor laughed. “Thanks. We’re off to Boscastle. I know some fishermen there who must know about caves.”
She put Teazle down. Usually she’d go snuffling in the blackthorn and gorse beside the path, but now she anxiously stuck to Eleanor’s heels. They went upstairs. Eleanor changed into slacks, then they walked up to the car.
The cart wheels—of course! Luckily, someone had got them out of the backseat.
Today, on the drive to Boscastle there were no glimpses of blue sea. As she came down the hill into the village, the bridge and the long low buildings along the stream were invisible. Once fishermen’s cottages and net sheds, they now housed gift shops and cafés, as well as the youth hostel. Eleanor hoped Julia and Chaz were all right. Once they were up on the cliffs they’d have a beautiful day for hiking, but the first part of the path would be hard to find.
Luckily, Eleanor didn’t have to cross the bridge, as the main part of the village was on the south hillside of the valley. She turned off the main road and found a spot to park, tucked well to the side on a narrow street.
She wanted to talk to one particular person. Now that all she had to do to reach his house was to walk round a couple of corners, she found Jocelyn’s warning lingering in her mind. Though she honestly didn’t believe she was in any danger, it might be just as well to call first on a few other people who had given her things for LonStar in the past. It would be a sort of camouflage for her real purpose, she hoped.
THIRTEEN
The India Palace was a modest shop-front restaurant in Camelford’s High Street, just a couple of doors down from the tiny police house. Megan parked her unmarked car, not difficult so early in the morning, and went to pay a courtesy call on the local constable. A notice on the door announced that he was already out on patrol. Anyone in need of assistance was advised to dial 999 in case of emergency; for other information, the Launceston police station number was provided.
Glad not to have to explain her errand, Megan walked along to the India Palace. A CLOSED sign hung crooked between the spotless glass of the door and the white blind hiding the interior, with a smaller sign giving hours of opening. The main window, to one side, was also covered by a blind. Gold lettering on window, door, and fascia announced the name of the business. It was unlicensed, so the name of the owner did not appear.
A faint smell of exotic spices lingered in the doorway. Megan’s mouth watered. Though their menu couldn’t compare to the Indian restaurants of London, she had had excellent takeaway from the India Palace. She wasn’t sure how her stomach would react to curry for breakfast.
Listening, she heard footsteps inside, and the sound of furniture being moved.
She couldn’t see a bell, so she knocked on the glass.
Sudden silence inside, followed by a woman’s voice speaking rapidly in a strange language, a shrill reply, and a scurry of feet. Then a large lorry rumbled by behind her—the High Street was also the A39. When it had passed, she was about to knock again when she heard a heavier tread within. The edge of the blind was pulled back and a man’s round, brown face stared at her.
She didn’t want to announce her identity in tones loud enough to reach him through the glass. A greengrocer was busy setting out his wares on the pavement just across the street, and next door but one, a butcher had come out to gaze in admiringly at his neat display in the window. If they heard that plainclothes police were visiting the Indians, rumours would fly.
Megan took out her warrant card and pressed it against the glass.
The man read it. He looked alarmed, but that was the normal reaction of any perfectly law-abiding citizen.
He nodded, then fiddled with a chain and the latch. The door opened a few inches. “Yes, officer? What is it?”
“Are you the owner, sir? Or the head of the family?”
Again he nodded. “I am both.” These places were all family businesses. “I have the health certificate. We have papers.” His English was heavily accented, not like Chudasama’s, let alone Dr. Prthnavi’s.
“I’m not here about those, sir. I need to talk to you. Routine enquiries.”
As always, the formula soothed. He closed the door briefly, took off the chain—pretty pointless with all that glass—and opened the door, moving backwards. The room was a forest of chair legs sticking up from the tabletops; more of a copse, really, as it was a very small restaurant. They must do well with takeaway meals.
“Come in, please. My name Mr. Khan. Is allowed to offer a cup of tea?”
“I’d love one, thank you, Mr. Khan. I haven’t had breakfast yet.”
Turning, he fired a stream of incomprehensible words at a youth in school uniform who leant against the wall at the back of the room, by the swinging door that presumably led to the kitchen. The boy went out.
“My son.” Mr. Khan bustled over to a table for two, lifted one of the upended chairs, and set it down on the floor. He wore a heavy gold ring, with a raised pattern of leaves on the head. “Please, sit.”
As Megan stepped across, he took down the other chair, then went to fetch a white tablecloth, which he flipped onto the table with a practised gesture.
“You don’t need to put on a cloth for me,” Megan protested.
The boy stuck his head back into the room. “Mum says, chai or English?”
“Miss?”
“That’s Sergeant. What is chai?” She addressed the question to the son. “I’ve seen it on menus but never tried it.”
“It’s tea with milk and spices, Sergeant. Not spicy hot.”
“I’d like to try it.” In the interests of community relations and a friendly interview, and hoping it wouldn’t upset her empty stomach.
He called something back into the kitchen, then said, “Dad, I’ve got to run or I’ll miss the bus.”
“All right, Achmed, run, run.” Adding something in his own language, Mr. Khan flapped his hands at his son. “In sixth form,” he said proudly to Megan, “take A levels. He very good at numbers. Mathematicals, physics. And speak English good, too.”
“So do I speak good English, Daddy.” A girl of nine or ten came through from the kitchen, carefully carrying a cup and saucer. She set it down in front of Megan, the gold bangles on her slim brown arm jingling. “Here you are, Miss Sergeant. My brother said you’re a policeman, but you don’t look like one.”
Mr. Khan spoke sharply to her. Megan held up her hand to stop him.
“I’m a detective. We mostly don’t wear uniforms. Sergeant is my rank, not my name. I’m Detective Sergeant Pencarrow. What’s your name?”
“Lily. It’s an English name and Indian.”
“A pretty name. Lily, I need to talk privately to your father. Perhaps you could bring him a cup of … chai?” She waved Khan to the other chair.
He nodded at his daughter and sat down gingerly on the edge of the seat. In the short time before Lily came back, Megan tried to frame her first question. Scumble hadn’t told her what to ask, a mark of confidence that left her floundering. Usually, before they started an interview, they had more to connect someone to a crime than their race. And this time they weren’t even sure a crime—or what crime—had been committed.
Lily returned with a cup for her father and a plate of fried potato chunks, which she set before Megan. “Achmed said you did
n’t have breakfast, Detective Sergeant Pencarrow, so Mummy made this for you.”
“That’s very kind of her, but I can’t accept—”
“This is not a bribe,” Khan said, agitated. “We do nothing bad. No reason for bribe. Potatoes! You can accept potatoes, Miss Detective. Is not business, is what we have for breakfast. Eat, eat!”
Embarrassed, Megan apologised. Lily, hovering anxiously, laid a knife and fork and napkin by the plate. She gave Megan a tentative smile, then scurried out at a word from her father.
Megan took a bite. Tears sprang to her eyes and she felt her face turn scarlet. Mrs. Khan had not made allowances for Western taste buds, reinforcing her husband’s statement that this was what the family had for breakfast.
Somehow Megan managed to swallow the mouthful and followed it with a cautious sip of chai—milky and sweet, not spicy hot, as Achmed had promised. It soothed her fiery tongue enough to enable her to speak.
Her prepared words had gone up in metaphorical flames. “Do you know many other Indians in this area?” she blurted out.
He shook his head. “Not many. Hard for wife—she speak only few words of English. Is one family, in Bodmin, in restaurant business, like us. Always busy, like us.”
“You don’t have any employees?”
“Without, we manage. In middle of Achmed, Lily, I have boy, girl. For dinnertime, they help. After homework,” he added firmly. “In summertime holidays, wife’s nephew come from London to work here.”
“You have family in London? How about relatives abroad who’d like to come to work in Britain?”
“They not like to leave India. Achmed call them stay-in-the-mud.” He giggled, then looked dismayed. “Is not bad word?”
“Stick-in-the-mud. No, not at all. It must be difficult bringing up children in a strange language and culture.”
“Culture. Please?”
Megan did her best to explain the word. “You like living here in Cornwall better than London?” she asked. She had the information she’d come for: She was pretty sure he knew nothing of a family being smuggled in—if they existed. But two pieces of potato remained on her plate. By interspersing questions and sips of chai, she had managed to down the rest; she didn’t want to insult him by leaving the remainder.
“For us, Cornwall is best. My wife’s nephew said, here we are curiosity to wonder at. In London are many people from India, Pakistan. English people think we are too many.” He shrugged. “Not so good for business here, maybe. Better for children.”
“I expect you’re right.” She washed down the last of the potato with a final gulp of chai. She pushed back her chair. “Thank you for answering my questions, sir, and for the breakfast. Please give your wife my thanks.”
Standing, he bowed. “You are welcome. I hope I help you. Please to come again when not on police business.”
“I will,” Megan promised. It hadn’t been so bad, really. By the last mouthful she’d almost got used to the fiery spuds. All the same, next time she’d make sure to order medium.
She sat in her car and wrote up a report of the interview. She hadn’t wanted to alarm Khan by taking notes, but just about every word was still clear in her memory. Then she wondered what to do next.
She hadn’t known about the Indian restaurant in Bodmin. It must be in a backstreet. Scumble would certainly have sent her there as well, if he’d been aware of it.
Should she just go there, or ring to ask first? Scumble would probably still be at home and asleep, which would mean talking to the super. She didn’t want to do that; for one thing, she wasn’t sure how up-to-date he was on the case. However, Bodmin was HQ of its own district, and Scumble had had to take over a case from the incompetent local DI, Pearce, not so long ago. The respective superintendents had not been happy about it.
Best not to trespass on Superintendent Egerton’s turf without specific permission from Superintendent Bentinck, she decided.
The situation was too complicated to explain on the car radio, and she didn’t want to use all her change on a public phone. The simplest answer led to exactly what she wanted to do anyway: go and see Aunt Nell and make sure she was all right after the travails of the previous day. Her aunt wouldn’t mind her using her telephone.
She was already quite close to Port Mabyn. Starting the car, she turned down a side street and was soon winding her way along a narrow lane.
Fog! she remembered suddenly. Aunt Nell’s cottage might well be within its perimeter. The vicarage was more likely to be above it. Mrs. Stearns would probably let her ring from there. What was more, the fog gave Megan another excuse for going out of her way. She’d find out just how dense it was so she’d be able to tell the boss whether the infuriating delay was really justified by the conditions.
At the top of the hill, she stopped. From here, the fog looked almost solid enough to walk on.
Leaving the car in the car park, occupied only by a van, a middle-aged Vauxhall, and a newish Jaguar, Megan walked down into the village. She passed the local police station, a cottage where the constable lived—PC Bob Leacock, a friend of her aunt. He was married, she was pretty sure, so even if he was out patrolling, she ought to be able to ring Launceston from there. But first to check on Aunt Nell.
From the vicarage, she could see the lighted window of the LonStar shop, wreathed in curling mist. Today’s volunteers were doubtless doing something useful in the stockroom at the back, in the absence of customers.
The sight reminded her of the skirt that had mysteriously turned up at the hospital last night. She would have to ask Aunt Nell whether it came from the shop and ought to be returned. If so, she would have to get it dry-cleaned, she supposed, another bill to pay. She had to replace the clothes lost in her lifesaving stunt—she hadn’t been on duty so she couldn’t put them on expenses. And somehow she had to return Julia’s polo-neck and pullover.
Apart from the moaning roar of the foghorn from the lighthouse, the single street was eerily quiet. On the other side, a man in a nautical jacket and yachting cap came out of the newsagent’s carrying half a dozen newspapers, and farther down, opposite LonStar, a dowdy woman with a string bag went into the bakery. The people living on the far side of the harbour, unless they were willing to feel their way over the narrow stone bridge, would have to put off their shopping until the fog lifted. In fact, three shops displayed CLOSED signs, the shopkeepers no doubt stuck over there, unable to open their premises.
Megan crossed the street. She tried the handle of the side door beside the LonStar shop and wasn’t at all surprised when it opened. She would have been more surprised if Aunt Nell had remembered to lock it.
A murmur of voices came from the stockroom at the far end of the passage. Megan went up the stairs and knocked on the door at the top.
No response. She frowned. Even if Aunt Nell was up on the second floor, in the bedroom or bathroom, Teazle should have heard, come running, and barked her head off at the door.
Of course, they might have just popped out to do some shopping. But what if Aunt Nell had been hurt worse yesterday than she thought? Suppose she had managed to get home and now was stuck in bed with a wrenched back, a slipped disc or something of the sort, unable to get downstairs to the telephone to ring for help?
Megan tried the door handle. Amazingly, it was locked. She knocked again, then dug in her shoulder bag for the key Aunt Nell had given her and went in.
The flat had an unoccupied feel, but she called up the stairs. That should have brought at least a yip from Teazle. Megan went to the kitchen window and looked out into the street. A few more people had appeared, but her aunt was not among them.
Aunt Nell must be all right, mustn’t she? since she had gone out.
Megan reminded herself that she was on duty. If she rang from here instead of PC Leacock’s, perhaps Aunt Nell and Teazle would return before she had to leave.
She dialled the operator and asked for a reverse-charge person-to-person call to Superintendent Bentinck. The duty
sergeant said the super was on another line, adding gratuitously that Mr. Bentinck was speaking to the chief constable. That was a conversation not to be interrupted. Before the operator cut them off, Megan managed to squeak in that she’d try again in a few minutes.
If Mrs. Stearns was in charge of the shop today, she would probably know where Aunt Nell had gone. Megan went downstairs and round to the front of the shop. The bell above the door jangled as she entered. A woman she didn’t recognise darted through the open door at the back, from the stockroom.
“Can I help you?” she asked. She wore a drab shirtwaister and a cardigan, rather old-fashioned, though she didn’t look much older than Megan.
“Is Mrs. Stearns here?”
“No,” the woman said sharply, obviously offended. “It’s my day today.”
She must be Mrs. Davies, the Methodist minister’s wife, who alternated with Jocelyn Stearns, though Mrs. Stearns was overall manager. Aunt Nell, the most charitable of people, had been known to mutter uncharitable things about Mrs. Davies’s propensity for inserting her religion into her work for the strictly secular LonStar. Aunt Nell certainly wouldn’t have told her where she was going.
“Sorry to disturb you.”
Nick Gresham was a more likely source of information. Megan went next door.
Those few steps down the hill brought her into a heavy mist, and she could barely see the building beyond the gallery. No wonder the Lifeboat people hadn’t been able to start a search of the cliffs and coves.
No one was in the gallery itself. Megan would have liked to browse among the pictures, enjoying the local scenes and trying to understand the abstracts without interruption, but she couldn’t spare the time. She knocked on the door to the studio behind the shop.
“Just a minute!”
“It’s me, Megan. Don’t stop whatever you’re doing.”
“Oh, all right, you’d better come in.” Paintbrush in hand, he was scowling ferociously—at the canvas on the easel between them, not at her.
