WHAT EVERY BODY IS SAYING
Carla Vermaat
Also by Carla Vermaat
Cornish Crime series ‘Tregunna’
Tregunna
WHAT EVERY BODY IS SAYING
Carla Vermaat
Carmichael Crime
Published in Great Britain in 2016 by
Carmichael Publishers, Cornwall
Copyright © Carla Vermaat 2016
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
All rights reserved.
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher's prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent publisher.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places and events, other than those clearly in the public domain, are either the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, events or locales is purely coincidental.
A CIP catalogue record for this book
is available from the British Library
ISBN 978-0-9933339-3-4
Typeset in Meridien by Varwig Design
Cover Image © Carla Vermaat – Design by Varwig Design
Printed and bound in Great Britain by TJ International, Cornwall
Carmichael Publishers
www.carmichaelpublishers.co.uk
For my family
Prologue
His mind seems to have got stuck in a loop. Head hanging low, he walks back to the small grassed picnic area dotted with wooden benches, only one of which bears the remains of a meal. A fly drifts in Holly’s plastic beaker, still half filled with pineapple squash, her favourite. Paper plates are weighed down by cutlery. Crumbs are picked at by a sparrow, which cautiously watches his every movement. The basket, so thoughtfully packed by Justine before they left the holiday cottage that morning, is still on the bench just next to where she sat. On one end, Holly’s tiny jacket hangs over the arm; a tea towel, smudged with crushed strawberry, lies crumpled on the other end.
His gaze drifts off, not wanting to look where they had sat not so long ago, where their dreams had been shattered in just a few moments.
Turning on his heels, his mobile vibrates in his pocket, but he ignores it. The only person he would like to speak to is Justine and he knows it won’t be her.
He hesitates, stops, not knowing what to do. Or what not to. A weathered signpost points in the direction of a public footpath that disappears into a wooded area on the hill. Flies sit on dog litter next to the wooden style. A hand-painted sign reads: ‘Dogs on leads please’.
All of a sudden, he finds himself shaking, his skin chilling as if he has been touched by a thousand tiny ice-cold hands. Incredulously, he stares down at where Holly had run in the grass less than half an hour ago, giggling happily, chasing bees and butterflies. Her bare arms and legs shining with sun cream so thoughtfully applied by Justine, her cheerful voice mixed with the sound of birds chattering in the shrubs and the gentle flow of the river beyond them.
Those last moments were so intense, so deeply etched in his memory that he can clearly picture the scene again, hear their voices, feel their happiness.
Insects buzzed. A buzzard circled above a prey invisible to the human eye. The water in the river, slow and dark, sluggishly moved with the tide, for an instant disturbed by something under the surface. The bright white feathers of an egret were reflected in the shallow water. The smell filled the air with a sense of mud and decay.
But above all there was Justine. Her pretty face lifted up towards the sun, strands of hair the colour of honey had come loose from under her baseball cap, wafting around her head like seaweed swaying with the waves. The gentle curve of her body as she leaned on outstretched arms, legs crossed, wiggling her toes in bright blue sandals.
And Holly. His thoughts pause. Rewind. Play.
Their lovely little Holly, with a crust of a sandwich in her small chubby hand, too impatient to sit quietly with them, getting up, running off in front of them, laughing at their lazy warnings to stay away from the busy cycle trail. Holly, running towards the edge of the river with its cracked banks of dark mud. The water gently flowing towards the deepest parts, to the point where it merges with the salty water of the estuary. Holly, warming his heart, making it burst with pride and love, waving her hand as though she was about to spread her wings and fly away. Like he knew she would in maybe fifteen years time.
If only he hadn’t reached out for Justine, her arms and shoulders bare and warm in the sun. Perhaps everything would have been different now. His life wouldn’t be so brutally disturbed and everything would still be normal and happy, with future and full of promises. Like that new life, still so precious and tiny growing in her belly.
If only she hadn’t turned to smile at him and he hadn't pulled her towards him, laughing at her faint attempts to protest, feeling aroused by the scent of her. For a few seconds the world had come to a halt and there had been only the two of them, an unbreakable bond, two hearts and two souls merged into one.
He can still feel the sun on her lips, smell the grass on her fingers.
And he can still hear the scream.
It seems ages before a police car pulls up. Two police officers get out, looking around as if they cannot believe their eyes. One, in her mid forties, wears the expression of someone who is trained to put off anyone who may even be considering wasting her time.
‘You are Mr Walker? Charlie Walker?’ she asks.
He scratches his head as if he has to find the right answer. ‘That’s me.’
‘You made the call?’
'Yes.' His hand moves to his pocket. Then it dawns on him that it will be ridiculous to show her his mobile.
She produces a warrant card but his eyes are too watery to read her name next to her picture.
'Are you all right, Mr Walker?'
No, he isn't. How can he be, after what he's seen? After what he felt on his fingertips?
'Yes.' Unconsciously, he wipes his hands on his thighs.
Passing cyclists slow down, and some even stop to look around, curious at catching a glimpse of the police car parked on the grass verge, and to listen to the conversation between a police woman and a young man whose shoulders are slumped and his face is ashen.
The other officer joins them for a brief moment to introduce himself as Constable White before he motions the bystanders to get moving.
‘Everything is under control. Please move on.’
‘What’s your full name and address please, Mr Walker?’
He stares at her, stunned, unsure suddenly how to respond. His planning had involved calling the police like a responsible citizen, but he hadn’t thought further than that. Now he is regretting everything. It would have been so much easier to forget about the whole thing, pick up his hired bike and leave this place.
‘What’s that got to do with anything?’ He asks curtly, overwhelmed suddenly by the sense that he shouldn’t have made the call.
Her face is blank and she repeats the question, producing a small notebook from her chest-pocket. She writes down his details, seemingly unnerved by his earlier message on the phone. Her colleague is younger, perhaps the same age as him, fulfilling the task of keeping curious passers-by away with a stoic face, every so often glancing at his older colleague as though he expects an encouraging smile or even a tap on the shoulder.
&
nbsp; ‘Were you alone, Mr Walker?’ With her toe she touches an empty carton of Justine’s fruit juice, a wasp buzzing around it in an attempt to find an opening to absorb the sweetened remains.
‘My wife’s gone ahead. To the car.’ Thinking of Justine, her face so pale, it was almost translucent, all he wants now is to run away and be with her, find comfort in her arms, in her presence. Give comfort to her in return. He reaches out, wanting to grab the police woman’s arm and quickly pull her through the high grasses and bushes to what lies in the mud on the river bank.
She raises one eyebrow, not moving. ‘Can you tell me what happened, Mr Walker?’
He almost wants to laugh, hard and loud. Perhaps this isn’t the reality after all, but just a horrible nightmare. Perhaps he will wake up in a few minutes, cuddle up against Justine’s warm body and tell her about it. She will take his hand between both hers, look at him with almost the same expression as when she looks at Holly, that specific look he sometimes secretly envies their daughter for. Together maybe they will smile and wonder about dreams and their possible meanings, which, in this case is quite obvious: his uncertainty about his ability to look after his young family, to protect them from all the evil in the world.
‘Mr Walker?’
‘I’ve already explained everything when I called the police station.’ He is getting annoyed, his impatience to get away from this place growing with the certainty that there will be no quick escape, not even an easy way out. They will require more, much more than he can possibly give. Only they don’t know that and they will keep trying until … who knows when.
‘It would help if you could tell us too.’ Kind words that don’t come simultaneously with her high-pitched voice.
‘I just want to go. Please. I cannot leave my wife on her own. She is …’
‘Please answer my questions, Mr Walker.’
He stammers as he delivers the story, reliving it in all its horror. The moment he saw his daughter's chubby little hand. The moment when her white cotton dress with its printed coloured butterflies disappeared from sight. Her thin voice trailing behind her, singing incoherent shards of a nursery rhyme. Bees humming, the mixed colours of flowers, the sound of the rippling water from the river, the dark salted mud smelling as it dried in the sun. He is sure he won't be able to enjoy those simple things of life any more.
‘Did you go after your daughter?’
‘Of course I did!’ They both notice the hesitation.
She frowns. Her radio crackles. She receives instructions from a voice which keeps breaking up after confirming that I am still here, that she's taking my statement now, and that her colleague is securing the place. She seems unnerved by the messages, but PC White jumps into action with a nervous expression on his face, and opens the boot of the police car to retrieve a roll of blue and white police tape.
'Shall I ...?'
'Wait a mo, Lee, we don't want to make fools of ourselves, do we?'
'I guess not.' He stands awkwardly, one foot on the cycle track, seriously considering putting the tape back into the car.
'So you went after her,' she resumes.
'Yes.'
'Your wife too?'
'Not straight away.' With a growing sense of guilt, he remembers his reluctance about leaving Justine, about closing his eyes, enjoying the pressure of her warm and sweet lips on his, her hands teasingly creeping under his shirt. 'She was clearing the table.'
‘And then, Sir? What happened, please?’
Tears are blurring his vision, both police officers are lost in an impenetrable mist. All he can see is the top of her blonde hair as Holly disappeared behind the shrubs.
He swallows. ‘She … she waved at me.’
‘Who did, Sir?’
He can’t believe that a woman, any woman, can be so insensitive. She’s a policewoman for heaven’s sake, trained to deal with all sorts of circumstances, trained to remain calm, soothing those who need comfort, implacable towards suspects. Act like a human being, not like a robot.
‘Go on, Mr Walker.’ Her colleague nods in encouragement, an expression of pity and compassion in his eyes that suddenly puts all the afternoon’s events into perspective.
Unconsciously, he straightens his back and shoulders, as though he has finally come to a decision. ‘As I said, she was waving at me. Well … incredulously, that’s what I thought. Ridiculous.’ His voice breaks in a half-sob, half-laugh. He swallows back a sour, burning blob of nausea. ‘I'm sorry. I … I need to be with my wife. She's pregnant.’
The police woman sighs and he expects to see a flash of anger but she quietly gestures him to go on, a hint of sympathy in her brown eyes. ‘Of course, Sir. We fully understand, but for now …’
‘We need you to tell us everything, Mr Walker,’ her young colleague interrupts.
He nods, defeated suddenly, realising that there is no point in trying to hurry them towards the riverbank. It is too late anyway.
‘All I could see was her hand sticking out of the mud.' His voice almost fails him. 'Only her hand.’
1
If anything, I wish I had paid more attention to the screen when my mobile rings. DCI Jason Guthrie is very close to the bottom of my contacts list. Professionally, I can’t delete him, which is the only reason why he is still on it. Most times I do check, let the phone go to answer phone as soon as I know it is him.
‘Yes?’
We rarely exchange how-are-you's or any other informal greetings. Between us exists a mutual hostility that allows us to be as curt as possible, if and when we can’t avoid one another.
‘Tregunna, listen, I’m a bit short of staff …’
Beside me a monitor erupts in a single high-pitched bleep. I hesitate, waiting for Guthrie to go on, meanwhile letting my eyes wander to the equipment beside the bed. There are plastic pouches hanging from a metal pole on wheels, transparent liquids drip slowly into tubes that are the vital link between life and death. The monitor keeps careful watch that this lifeline remains intact. A green light blinks, rows of coloured lines track slowly across the screen, then disappear and the next set appears. Some of the lines are almost flat, others jump up and down like a landscape of a distant mountain range.
‘Where are you?’ Guthrie demands.
I look at the face on the pillow. The deep ebony of her hair, half shaven where she's had surgery when they removed the bullet, looks even blacker in dramatic contrast to the white marble of her skin. I can see the blonde line of her roots, which suddenly makes me think about finding a hairdresser. Her eyes are closed. She doesn't notice when I’m here, she won’t notice when I go. Or perhaps she does. In a vegetative state like hers, who can tell?
‘I’m on my way home, Sir.’ The lie is as blunt as his outburst.
I am well aware that this makes him none the wiser. I could be travelling from anywhere in the country, with many hours ahead on my drive back to the southwest.
‘Right.’ He stops, not asking me again where I am, which tells me that he is preoccupied with something more important than our conversation. I hear noises in the background. Legs of cheap chairs scraping on the lino floor, the clacking of keyboards. Voices, curt, to the point. No silly remarks, no cheerful banter, no laughter, only a distinctive sense of urgency.
‘How can I help, Sir?’
‘I need you to do an interview.’ We both sense the underlying emergency, otherwise he wouldn't have admitted to needing me.
‘What about Jennette?’
‘Who?’
‘DC Penrose.’
‘Oh. Yes. She’s busy with something else. Ehm … they found something suspicious on the other side of the coast. She's dealing with that.’
‘Okay.’
He mutters something to someone else, then his arrogant voice hits me once more. ‘Listen, Tregunna. I have no time for bullshit. I have more important things to do than deal with a nutcase.’
‘I’m sure you have, Sir.’ My sarcasm is lost on him.
In contrast,
I have plenty of time. Even if it is for what he calls a nutcase. Although my consultant hasn’t officially declared so, I am fit for work, and ready. At least, I think so. Perhaps it is not the entire truth but I am fed up staying at home and doing little else than staring at the ceiling and becoming addicted to soaps and quiz shows and repeated episodes of decades old comedies. But having my superior offering me the discarded crumbs from his job is only adding salt to my wounds.
‘Sir, I …’
He interrupts. ‘Listen, Tregunna, this man is pestering me. He’s calling me about every five minutes. And I don't like that at all.’
‘Perhaps it is important.’
‘Whatever his reasons, he won’t give up. I’ve told him that he’ll be taken care of as soon as possible. But right now, I have no time to deal with him. Not at this very moment.’ He stops for breath, or rather, he waits for my reaction.
‘What is going on?’ I ask.
He tries to suppress a sigh. ‘Believe it or not, we are dealing with a serious terrorist threat. Which, I hope you'll understand, is top secret information for the moment. The message was received in Exeter, but the threat is right on our doorstep. And it is really serious, Tregunna.’ Even in these circumstances, he still manages to sound pompous and conceited. He’s already having visions of being called the hero of the day, for dealing with terrorists and bomb threats, and successfully averting lots of deaths and casualties.
Fixing my eyes on the silent figure in the hospital bed beside me, I straighten my back. The comfortable chair that was standing next to the bed during my previous visits seems to have gone awol. Instead, I am sitting on the unforgiving hard surface of a three-legged stool.
What every body is saying: DI Tregunna Cornish Crime novel Page 1
