What every body is saying: DI Tregunna Cornish Crime novel

by Carla Vermaat

  A nurse passes in the corridor. I’ve come to know most of them here, sadly, and I imagine that I know exactly which one of them is now humming and softly singing a repetitive tune. I am certain from the sound of her footsteps that it is the blonde girl with a puffy round face and a fair chance of future problems with obesity.

  ‘Where exactly is the threat?’ I ask.

  ‘The more people who know at this stage, the more chance we’ll have to prevent an outbreak of panic.’ Guthrie’s arrogant reply is prompt, letting me know that any further questions are wasting his time.

  A terrorist threat is the worst case scenario for a policeman. For a brief moment I don’t envy him the task ahead. ‘Okay.’

  'Between you and me, it’s at White River in St Austell.’

  'I see.' White River means it’s really is a serious threat. A modern shopping centre built not so long ago to attract visitors from all over the county and beyond. A perfect place for terrorists to target and cause as many deaths and casualties as possible to make their point. Whatever that point may be.

  ‘I presume you’d like me to work on something else?’

  ‘Of course.’ He doesn't even have the decency to show his relief that I am willing to take over an undesirable task. ‘I’ll have someone text you the address. Listen to the man when you get there, no doubt you will be able to quieten him a bit.’ He manages to make it sound an accusation rather than a compliment. ‘Explain to him that you are no less than my right-hand officer. Whatever. But don’t let him call me any more.’

  ‘All right.’ A perverse part of me is considering saying that I will do what he wants as long as he says ‘please’. But I sense that this is not the time for silly jokes that will cause his blood pressure to rise sky-high.

  ‘Good.’ He sounds very close to thanking me, but there appears to be someone else who is in need of his attention and he disconnects abruptly.

  Seconds later, I receive a text message with a name and an address on the outskirts of Newquay. No further details, not even an inkling of what it might be about.

  ‘Everything all right?’ Tall and skinny with spiky black hair and a stud in her nose, one of the nurses stops in the doorway, pointing at the silent body in the bed beside me. Her plucked eyebrows, more like thin lines, rise as she sees me with my mobile, but she just shrugs. Under her uniform are signs of a preference for gipsy clothing. Or perhaps she is a hippie in her spare time.

  ‘I guess so.’

  She observes the patient with a faint smile that pulls the corners of her mouth into a less grumpy expression. ‘No changes?’

  I shake my head, wishing I can tell her otherwise. We both know that every day means less hope for recovery. The bullet that went into the patient’s brain has been taken out, but she is still locked in a coma. Her heart is pumping and she breathes without the assistance of a machine, but other than that there is no activity.

  ‘I’m sure it’s all going to be okay.’ The nurse sounds unconvincing, but we let the words hang in the air. She straightens the sheet across the bed, gently touching a motionless hand. On her chest pocket is a badge that tells me her name is Mirabelle. It makes me wonder what her parents were expecting, or hoping, when she was born.

  ‘Yes,’ I say obediently. ‘She’s doing great.’

  ‘She’ll love your flowers.’

  She gestures and I turn. I did notice earlier that there was a fresh bouquet of mixed pink and white flowers in a glass vase on the window sill, but I haven’t given it much attention. Rising to my feet, I reach for the little white card that is attached to one of the pink roses, opening it with my thumb. ‘Get well soon, my darling.’

  A shiver runs down my spine. ‘When was this delivered?’

  ‘I don’t know. I just assumed that you brought them for her and …’

  ‘I didn't.’

  Her gaze tells me that I should consider the possibility that the patient in the bed may well be able to hear us. She is warning me not to say things that may cause distress, that may set the monitors off bleeping in alarm. Or worse, cause a sudden fatal pressure on the brain.

  ‘Well, then someone else must have brought them in.’ As she leans towards me, she reads the message on the card. ‘Hmm, nice one.’

  Although it isn’t signed, I know who sent the flowers. I am tempted to tear the card from the bouquet, but I decide to wait and do it as soon as the nurse has gone. She won’t understand the situation and I don’t feel like explaining it to her.

  I take the white hand in mine, pressing it gently with my fingertips, hoping that there will be a response. There isn’t. Not today, but maybe tomorrow …

  ‘I’m sorry, Becca, but I’ll have to go,’ I say, both to Mirabelle and the patient. Becca. I find it easier to call her by her real name than by the name she used when we met. ‘I will be back, I promise.’

  As though we are expecting some reply, Mirabelle and I both stare at the white face. Even the lips are deathly pale. I think I see her eyelids flutter, but Mirabelle doesn’t react, so I guess it must be a trick of my imagination. I kiss her forehead just under the bandage and leave the room without looking back.

  I find it unnerving that a person can be dead and alive at the same time.

  2

  Penmarric Drive is a long street that twists through a bleak-looking housing estate like an octopus that finds itself trapped in a glass bottle. There are side streets off it that end abruptly in small parking areas and dried out ditches, creating perfect escape routes for anyone on the run. All the streets are lined with modest, identical terraced houses, adding to the confusion. The whole estate is depressing and claustrophobic. I drive round aimlessly, returning to what looks suspiciously like the corner I have come across at least two times already. There seems no logic to the numbering of the houses. A block numbered 36 to 43 is facing a similar one with numbers 221 to 231 whilst the next block of houses is numbered 84 to 92. The Satnav isn’t helping either as Penmarric Drive shares one postcode.

  I stop on a small car park facing what must have been a playground for young children when the estate was built years ago. A single car tyre dangles from a rusty frame that has room for at least three proper swings. A mother stands patiently with a pram, a toddler running around her in circles, arms wide spread as though the child is imagining being a bird or an airplane.

  Hanging around the remains of what appears to be a bus shelter is a group of youths varying in age from ten years old to young adults. They follow me with their eyes full of suspicion, exchanging what feels like insults aimed at me. Scenes from American police films spring to mind and for a moment I consider offering them money to protect my car. The thought makes me smile, but I am still not sure if I will find my car in one piece when I come back. I may be prejudiced, but it is how I feel when I stop close enough for them to realise that I am addressing them.

  Opening the window a few inches I say, ‘I am looking for Lobb. Any idea where I can find him?’ I make a vague gesture towards a block of detached houses, half of which have broken windows and front doors boarded up.

  There is a ripple of sarcastic laughter.

  ‘Who wants to know?’

  I cast a quick glance over my shoulder. ‘If it isn’t the bloke behind me, then it’s me.’

  Less laughter, a bit more fidgety, as though each of their brains is contemplating the next move forward. One of them steps closer. The appointed spokesman. At five foot two he is dwarfed by the others, but that doesn’t make him less important. Perhaps the opposite. He is wearing low-slung jeans that reveal the brand of his underwear, which is neither expensive nor impressive, and a faded green sweatshirt. His bare feet are encased in grubby trainers with broken laces. The sides of his head are shaven, with a tuft of dark brown hair kept into place with gel.

  ‘Looking for trouble, mate?’

  ‘I am trying to find Patrick Lobb.’

  ‘Why?’ he asks, chewing gum without closing his mouth.

  ‘That is between
Lobb and me.’ I’m already fed up with this pointless display of masculinity.

  He gazes at me, not sure how to react, feeling his superiority slip away. He nods. ‘All right, mate. But no trouble, hey?’

  I shrug with an air of indifference, which appears to be accepted as an appropriate response.

  ‘There.’ The youth points with his tuft. ‘End of that block. With the yellow door.’

  ‘Thanks.’ I turn and drive the short distance to where he’s pointing. Getting out of my car, I'm half expecting to be punched and robbed of my phone and wallet as soon as my back is turned. Smug laughter follows me, but that’s all. Slightly ashamed all of a sudden, the thought comes to me that my prejudices are probably completely unfounded.

  A concrete path bordered by unkempt grass, littered with daisies and dandelions, leads to a yellow front door, slightly ajar. I can smell fish and chips and cigarettes and hear music mingled with the dull bleeps of a computer game. I knock hard, wait a minute with no response, then count to ten before knocking again.

  Then a voice calls out, ‘The door is open!’

  A narrow hallway is lined with coats on cheap hooks, shoes and boots in all sizes scattered underneath. A staircase with a threadbare brown carpet leads to where the computer sounds are coming from.

  'In here!' someone shouts.

  The living room has three huge sofas against each of the walls. One is beige with brown cloths on the armrests presumably to cover stains and cigarette marks. One is dark green faux leather and the third is navy satin, printed with pink roses. In each corner is a wooden cabinet with glass doors on top and a display of bric-a-brac on the only shelf. A fake fireplace dominates the other wall, and above it hangs a large flat-screen TV showing a cheerful weather lady announcing a yellow alert for torrential rain and gale force winds.

  A man is sitting in the middle of the dark green sofa opposite the TV, a remote control in one hand, a bottle of beer in the other. He is clearly tall and heavy, if not overweight, with thinning hair and a grey stubble as if he is not sure whether to grow a beard or not.

  ‘Mr Lobb?’

  ‘Who are you?’ He doesn’t move. The weather lady has finished her warning of a potential deluge and is replaced by a commercial with a man shouting so loudly that I can only imagine this will lose rather than gain any custom.

  ‘I am Detective Inspector Andy Tregunna.’ I show him my ID. ‘You called the police station.’

  ‘I did.’ He nods, gazing at the remote as though he’s wondering what it’s for. He doesn’t press a button to mute the sound, let alone turn it off. On the TV, happy families now come down huge slides at some very sunny resort, one of those popular UK holiday attractions where the entrance fees cost as much as a week’s holiday abroad.

  ‘Sorry, I think I expected more of you to come than just one,' the man says disapprovingly.

  'I'm sorry.’

  'You’re not wearing a uniform.’

  ‘No.’ It don’t think it’s time to tell him that I'm not even officially on duty, that I'm only here because of a heavy workload and lack of staff. And because Guthrie has more important issues to deal with.

  ‘Elsie? Police are here!’ he shouts, a sense of urgency in his voice. A split second later a woman appears in the doorway. Hands clutching the front of a flowery apron, her eyes are red and her bottom lip trembles. Fear is etched on her face and she cannot hide the tremor in her voice. ‘Are you here to tell us …?’

  Inwardly, I curse Guthrie. At least he could have had the decency to tell me why he sent me to this family. Clearly, the couple are in distress and I haven’t a clue what I’m supposed to say or do. Guthrie is a snob and no doubt he has already decided that the couple is of zero importance. The bomb threat is evidently top of his priority list. Understandable in a way but, in his position, he should have dealt with other matters in the same manner. Sending me is perhaps his way of showing his superiority, but it also indicates his lack of professionalism.

  I clear my throat, hesitant and embarrassed. ‘Actually, I’ve been sent to ask you some questions.’

  ‘Questions?’ Lobb rises with surprising fitness and elegance. He is even taller than I expected and I have to look up at him as he stands opposite me. His steel blue eyes stare cold and menacingly between his ruddy fat cheeks and bushy brows. ‘Questions? How about you answer our questions?’

  I don’t know what to say. As far as I am concerned the page is completely blank.

  ‘Have you got any news?’ the woman wrings her hands. The desperate plea of a worried mother.

  ‘Not yet, no,’ I manage to say. ‘Do you mind if I sit down and you tell me everything you know?’

  Elsie Lobb drops her head and disappears to the kitchen after having offered me the inevitable cup of tea. Her husband gestures me towards the flowery sofa and then kneels in a corner to open a cupboard and retrieve a tattered shoebox. He grabs a handful of photographs from the box. Most of them seem to be taken at school, children posing for the camera, boys and girls alone, in pairs or groups. Photos in all sorts of sizes are shuffled around as he rummages through them, until he freezes to a sudden halt when he finds the one he is looking for: a school portrait of a young girl with curly red-blond hair, blue eyes as pale as his. A gap between her front teeth.

  ‘That is our Leanne.’ His voice suggesting that I am now fully briefed, I look for words to say in turn that I am none the wiser, but cannot find any.

  ‘You can take it with you, but we would like to have it back,’ he adds. ‘It is the most recent we have.'

  Picking up the photo between my thumb and index finger, I get the sinking feeling that Guthrie got it all wrong and has sent me here to compensate for his own inadequacies. My efforts to find the right words are interrupted by Elsie, carrying a tray with three cups and saucers. Tea spoons rattle in a small glass.

  ‘Would you like a biscuit, inspector?’ she asks absent-mindedly, lowering herself onto the edge of the sofa without waiting for my response. As her eyes lock onto the photo, her lips silently form a single name. It could be a silent scream or whisper of shock.

  ‘What happened?’ I ask.

  It seems an acceptable question.

  ‘She was going to Newquay, yesterday. Se was supposed to be going to school-friend’s sleepover party.’ Lobb’s sigh is loud and deep. ‘Only there wasn’t one.’

  It sounds like he is reading mechanically from a slip of paper, which somehow makes them emotional. His wife is now sobbing quietly, shoulders dropped in defeat. She is already thinking the very worst.

  Gathering my thoughts, I ask cautiously, ‘What time did you last see her?’

  Nodding, he gestures with his large hands. ‘Elsie did. Yesterday morning. Before she left for school. Elsie saw her out as she and our Janice went to catch the school bus.’ He stares at the photo as though apologising to their daughter. ‘I didn’t see her at all. I had an early shift. They were all still asleep when I got up and left at half past five.’

  ‘What do you do for a living, Mr Lobb?’ I ask, attempting small talk to make him a bit more comfortable.

  ‘I’m a butcher.’

  ‘Do you have a shop somewhere?’

  ‘No.’ His expression tells me that he would have loved to have been able to say yes. ‘No. I work for a big company.’ The passion long gone, he probably just works to get bread on the table for his family. Nothing more.

  Glancing briefly at her husband, Elsie speaks, her voice low and husky with despair. ‘She didn’t go to school today. Our Janice is two years younger than Leanne. She discovered that Leanne was not there and called us.’

  She starts sobbing again, her fear etched on her pale, tired face.

  ‘Do you have any other children?’

  ‘Janice and three younger boys.’

  ‘Where are they now?’

  Elsie sniffs, dabbing a propped handkerchief printed with tiny flowers against her nose. ‘At me sister’s. She lives down the road.’

  If
this is as bad as my feelings tell me, I’ll have to speak to the children as well, but for now it will have to wait.

  ‘Does it happen often that she’s not at school?’

  ‘Certainly not. She never misses a lesson. She wants to be a lawyer.’ Patrick Lobb cannot hold back a chuckle filled with a mixture of embarrassment and pride. Then tears begin to fill his eyes, but none escape down his cheeks and through his stubble.

  ‘I mean … did you check at school?’

  ‘Of course we did. We wouldn’t bother calling the police unnecessarily. Janice needed something from Leanne so she went to her classroom. She called us immediately. Well, she alerted Elsie, as I was at work. Elsie called the school and they confirmed she wasn’t there. They assumed she’d been taken ill.’

  ‘Was she at school at all yesterday?’

  ‘Oh yes. She was there and we thought she had taken the bus into town, where that other girl lives. Carensa. We’ve spoken to her on the phone but she didn’t know anything about a sleepover party.’

  ‘So Leanne went to school yesterday as usual, she left the school but instead of going home, she went somewhere else and you believed she was at that friend’s house, but she never arrived there.’ I hope this is not as frightening as it sounds.

  Lobb nods, catching his wife’s haunted gaze, revealing what the last hours must have been like: exhausted with fear, not knowing whether to wait for her to come home and beat the hell out of her, or go out and look for her, not knowing where to look, hopes fading, scared of what they might discover if they would find her.

  ‘Did she do that often?’ Mentioning the word ‘lie’ at this stage wouldn't be a wise move, but it must have dawned on them already that the girl wasn’t always telling the truth.

  ‘Never.’ He shakes his head, then adds hesitantly, ‘Not that we’re aware of anyway.’

  ‘What is the friend’s full name? The one with the supposed sleepover party?’

  ‘Carensa Pencreek. They’re in the same year.’ Looks are exchanged, a conversation unspoken.

  ‘We’ve tried to call Leanne’s best friend, but that is kind of difficult. Her family won’t speak to us.’ His mouth has tightened and there is a sudden flare of anger in his eyes.