‘Andy?’ She sounds breathless. ‘Andy, please ignore what Joe just said to you, please.’
‘Lauren, about your birthday,' I say gently, 'I’ll pick the three of you up on Friday at ten, if that’s okay with you?’
‘I didn’t mean …’
‘I know. But your son has just invited me to your birthday party.’
4
‘Is it possible to meet, sir?’
As usual, DC Jennette Penrose is curt and to the point, not wasting time with unnecessary pleasantries. She calls me when I park at a superstore, drawing up a mental list of groceries. I can hear her fingers tapping her keyboard. Phones ring in the background. Voices of colleagues. Muttering. Disconnecting with a grunt or careful excitement. It brings a pang of jealousy as I think of the camaraderie in the busy working environment. Perhaps it is more appealing when you're not part of it any more.
‘No problem, Jennette. Any news on the missing girl?’
‘Not that I’ve heard.’ She wants to move on to her own topic.
‘The terrorist threat at White River?’
‘That’s been dealt with.' There is an edge of irony in her voice and she takes a moment to explain. ‘Apparently it was some nutcase having picked up information from the internet on how to produce a bomb. Nowhere near anything that could possibly cause any damage. Though the video made it look very serious.’
She has lowered her voice. I presume DCI Guthrie’s mood hasn’t improved. It has forced him to reconsider options and opportunities, high and low risk, setting his priorities. He got it wrong. He must have realised by now that calling Patrick Lobb a 'nutcase' and handing Leanne's disappearance over to me, wasn’t a very clever move. Yet, in his shoes, I would probably have prioritized the two cases in the same way. A missing girl isn’t to be neglected, but you can never ignore a terrorist threat.
‘He was just after attention, I suppose,’ Penrose analyses. ‘But … ehm … can we meet, sir? There is something else I’d like your opinion about.’
Inwardly I sigh. The meeting with the surgeon cancelled, I haven’t had the chance to ask his professional opinion about going back to work. He hasn't officially declared me fit for work. Guthrie and now Penrose seem to take the liberty of persuading me to do odd jobs for them, knowing very well that I won’t refuse.
‘I could do with your help, sir,’ she adds as an afterthought.
When I came out of hospital, I was definitely unable to work. Still shell-shocked about what had happened to me and with such short notice, I felt a loneliness I'd never experienced before. I found myself in desperate need of a goal in my shattered life. I needed something to distract me from my darkening thoughts. Penrose prevented me from becoming depressed. Unaware of this, she kept any thought of suicide at arm's length by providing me with detailed information about an unsolved murder case I had been working on. She produced files with secretly copied statements and supplied me with updates and new information. We used to meet in cafés, like spies in a badly scripted movie.
‘Is this about a current case?’ I ask gently.
Patches of blue sky are growing smaller as pewter-coloured clouds are gathering above my head, as if in harmony with the way I am feeling. The wind picks up and the first big drops land hard on the window, transforming it into frosted glass.
‘Ehm … That too, sir.’
She doesn’t explain further, sounding hesitant and secretive, which is probably why my curiosity takes over.
‘My time is unlimited, as you know,’ I say wryly.
She doesn’t reply immediately, unsure whether a response is needed. ‘Where and when, Jennette?’
Clearly, thinking that I’m at home, she suggests meeting me in a recently opened café in Trenance Gardens, a stone's throw from my flat.
‘In half an hour?’
‘Yes.’ She hesitates, almost changing her mind until she remembers the urgency and adds, almost formally: ‘I appreciate it very much, sir.’
Putting my phone in my pocket, I wait for a heavy shower to pass. Big raindrops crash sideways onto the windscreen, sending curly streams down the bonnet. In the rear-view mirror, I watch a couple in their late fifties pass behind me. Head down, the woman is rummaging in a big handbag. Her husband, I presume, pushes a large trolley, filled with grocery supplies enough for at least three months; yet I guess they’re on their weekly shopping outing. Seemingly oblivious to the rain, he negotiates his way around rapidly growing puddles. Lips pursed tightly, the woman opens the passenger door of a tattered blue vehicle and gets in, shaking raindrops from her dull grey hair and leaving her husband to struggle with half-filled plastic bags and loose groceries. Water drips from the boot door onto his shoulders, his face sullen and stoic while his wife issues instructions with rapid hand gestures, safely warm and dry inside the vehicle. With sagging shoulders, he looks like a man trapped and defeated.
My phone rings. It’s my mother, sounding careful, never certain about my reaction. ‘Are you coming over for tea, love?’
‘No. sorry, Mother, I’m working on a case.’
Outside the man has almost unloaded the trolley. An empty plastic bag escapes and is lifted by a gust of wind, then, weighed down by the rain, gets stuck in a small tree bearing a handful of yellowing leaves. His wife is shaking her head disapprovingly. Despondently, he pushes the trolley into a bay, apparently not minding the rain. Maybe he prefers remaining outside for a bit longer.
‘Are you back at work? That’s good news!' My mother asks cheerfully.
‘I’m only helping out. They're a bit short of staff.’
‘Oh.’ Her sense of disappointment creeps into my ears. She has never been very good at hiding her feelings. ‘You read about cuts everywhere, so I guess that applies to the police too.’ Voice lowered an octave, she rattles on nervously about the current economy, the country falling apart as a result of bad management and how on earth normal people can keep up with everything.
‘Mother, I have to go,’ I interrupt her.
‘Oh. Are you in your car?’
‘Yes.’ Inside the blue car the man is adjusting his seat belt, joining his wife in staring out of the window. Not speaking. It makes me wonder about the last time they touched. Kissed. Made love.
‘Not driving, I hope, Andy? Not while you are on the phone?’ My mother's instincts tell her accidents are likely to happen any moment. Especially to me, her only child.
‘It’s safe, Mother.’
‘Oh. Well. Ehm … I meant to ask you something, but ... I guess it can wait. How about tomorrow? Tea time? We haven’t seen you for a while and your father is …’
The line seems to break off, but the connection remains in place, albeit with cracks and hisses.
‘I'm sorry, Mother. Not tomorrow.’ Sensing her disappointment, I settle quickly for Sunday lunch and she disconnects, already planning a menu in her head.
It’s ten minutes later when I pull into the car park at my flat, half debating whether to put my groceries in the fridge and change my stoma bag before I meet Penrose in the cafe. The weather - or the location - interferes with my phone signal and there is no other way of letting her know. She is too impatient to risk it.
The café is decorated in a trendy modern style with different shaped seats and tables, a small settee with a dozen bright cushions and shelves with all kinds of unusual artefacts. Vintage tea pots. Cups and saucers. Vases. Most of which I remember from visits to grandparents and old aunts. Useless memorabilia. Yet it creates a warm and cosy atmosphere.
‘Thanks for coming, sir.’
She has chosen a table furthest from the entrance door as though she’s trying to hide from the world.
‘No problem, Jennette.’ I offer a smile, wondering which of us needs the other more. She’s my lifeline with my job. She is my mental anchor. I am hers. She has the overall feeling that her colleagues don’t take her seriously and treat her accordingly. She can't see that confidence works both ways. Or find a way out of her general nega
tivity.
Only two of the other tables are taken. Closest to the door are four young women, chatting and giggling away. By the look of the amount of empty mugs and saucers in front of them, they’ve been here for quite a while. Next to the window is a couple in their fifties, talking animatedly like they haven’t seen each other for ages. Quite the opposite of the couple in the supermarket car park. You don’t often see couples of that age so upbeat together and I wonder if they recently met on a dating site and have a lot to catch up on.
Penrose is already sipping weak tea in a glass mug, staring over the rim as though we’re having a blind date and she’s disappointed in my appearance. I order a black coffee and sit opposite her, hiding my stoma bag behind the lining of my unzipped jacket.
‘Much appreciated, sir.’
I’ve tried hard to make her call me Andy, especially as we’re meeting in private, but somehow she can’t. I’ve now stopped trying.
‘Perhaps it's best to start at the beginning, Jennette?’
‘It’s just … men!’ The outburst produces two round red spots on her cheeks. There is a look of surprise in her eyes and I realise that it isn’t what she meant to say. ‘Guthrie of course, but Maloney in particular.’
Since I had to take compassionate leave for my operation and Maloney came in as my temporary replacement, the two men seem to have joined forces. Not so much as friends, but it’s more like they need each other to cover their backs. For certain, Maloney needs Guthrie for a next step on the career ladder. He has never made it a secret that he’d rather see the back of me and still has hopes to be offered my job on a permanent basis. As a result, Guthrie has him more or less in his pocket. Whenever Guthrie calls, Maloney jumps up like a little dog keen to please his boss, waiting for a pat on the shoulder. For his part, Guthrie is more interested in the financial credibility of his team than taking an interest in most of the cases and he seems quite happy with a loyal side kick.
‘They make it impossible for me to do my job.’ Penrose declares over-dramatically.
‘It can’t be that bad.’
‘They won’t even listen to me.’
I don’t give an immediate reaction, wanting to get her back on track rather than listen to her launching into a tirade of complaints and insults. Part of her frustration is based on her belief that life has cheated on her, physically and professionally. I wish I could make her look in a mirror and see what other people see: when she smiles, it’s like the sun breaks through the dark clouds. Sadly, the smile is rarely on offer.
‘What can I do for you, Jennette?’
She shrugs, deflated suddenly, staring gravely in her half-empty mug. ‘Tell me what I’m doing wrong, I guess.’
‘Okay.’ I keep my face straight, but she narrows her eyes seeing my expression.
'I'm on this case ...' The door opens and she is quickly distracted. A young couple enters the café, bringing in a gust of wet wind along with a swirl of leaves fallen from a nearby tree. They avoid each other’s eyes like they are still in the aftermath of a row. The cold breeze has coloured the girls’ face and her blue eyes are sparkling with life. The young man’s face is much paler, his mouth tight as though he has difficulty keeping his suppressed anger inside. They sit next to our table and Penrose has to lower her voice when she picks up from where she started.
‘This case is much more complicated than I thought. I guess than everyone else thought. But still the DCI doesn’t take me seriously and Maloney belittles me as if I am a silly schoolgirl.’
‘That doesn’t sound very professional to me,’ I say neutrally.
‘Exactly. The thing is, ehm … Andy …’ Her gaze drifts towards the young couple. Across the table, the girl has reached out her hand, a peace offering. Her companion isn’t ready for it.
‘At first every eye was on that bomb threat in St Austell, now it’s the missing girl. Poor family. I know it’s important that we find her alive and safe, but all the same …’
An outburst of laughter fills the café with joy and happiness. The four young women seem in a different world where everything is coloured pink and life is an on-going party.
Drumming her fingertips on the edge of the table, Penrose can barely control her annoyance, yet she understands that she will need to if she wants to have a career in the force. Turning her head towards the source of laughter, her face is a mask of defiance and regret having suggested meeting me in this café.
‘Perhaps you’d better tell me everything about this case, Jennette,’ I say gently.
She stirs, taking in a sharp breath. I know how keen she is to get on with the job. She has such a huge lack of self-confidence about her qualities as a police officer as well as her physical appearance that she’s always walking on tiptoes, trying hard to get recognition, which she won’t receive from Guthrie or Maloney.
Shaking her head as though making up her mind that a fight will definitely make her feel more satisfied than retreating in defence, she delivers what she clearly perceives as good news: ‘Forensics have come back to me about the foot.’
‘I’m afraid I’m not with you, Jennette. Whose foot are you talking about?’
She frowns meaningfully but when she sees my face, she offers a wry smile: ‘I thought you’d heard about it.’
‘I’ve hardly been at the station this week.’
‘Right. Well. To cut a long story short, an older couple celebrating an anniversary went for a scenic drive around the castle at Pendennis Point in Falmouth. They found a shoe. Nothing special about that, but the upsetting bit was that they discovered that the foot was still in it.’
‘Not a pretty sight.’
‘Indeed not.’ She offers a smile. More relaxed. ‘I was ordered to deal with this case. Not a very inspiring or interesting one, as Maloney reminded me kindly. Apparently, fishermen seem to find hands and feet on a regular basis. Comes with the job of working at sea. Cut off when someone is not working carefully enough with ropes and chains and things like that.’
The waitress appears at our table. A device that looks like a mobile phone in her hand, ready to take our next order. ‘Can I get you anything else?’
‘No.’ Penrose scratches at her wrists.
‘Another black coffee for me, thank you.’ I hesitate. ‘And tea for the lady.’
Penrose blushes, not arguing, waiting for the girl to disappear behind the counter. Then she leans back, tucking both thumbs into her belt. Her eyes find her mobile which she put within eyesight on the table between a tiny vase with two red flowers and a small bowl with sugar cubes. She's thinking about checking her messages.
‘But you have your suspicions about the foot?’ I ask.
She nods, concentrating again, eyes alert, lips a thin line. ‘Yes. Forensics are still working on it, but there was something very distinctive about it. Even to my untrained eyes.’ She pauses and waits, to add to the drama. ‘The foot wasn’t ripped off, like what would happen in an accident on board a ship. It was cut off.’
‘Cut off?’
She smiles briefly, staring at me for a long time, her expression unreadable. ‘With some sort of saw, I’d say.’
I breathe in slowly, sensing why she is so tense about this case. She’s been given the task to investigate, but really only to file statements and dismiss the case afterwards as an accident. If the appearance of the foot turns out to be suspicious, if, in her opinion, it becomes a more intriguing puzzle to solve, she won’t be able to keep the case. She’s well aware that Maloney will be quite keen to take over when he finds out that the foot wasn't a result of a straightforward accident.
‘How did Maloney react?’
‘He told me I was seeing bears on the road, a dead body in every closet. That kind of stuff. He suggested that I talk to a fisherman.’ She is silent for a few moments. ‘Basically, he didn’t believe a word I said. Or it was more like he wouldn’t listen to what I told him.’
‘He made you feel silly.’
‘Exactly. Only I kno
w that I am right.’
'Did you talk to a fisherman?'
'Yes.' A rueful smile. 'I did what Maloney told me to do.'
Shifting uncomfortably, she relives the encounter which clearly wasn’t all that pleasant as she is naturally uncomfortable with men.
‘What did he say? The fisherman?’
‘When I showed him the photo? He couldn't stop laughing.’ A mixture of anger and self-pity crosses her face.
‘Why?’
‘He openly doubted my abilities as a police officer. As – his words – anyone with an IQ above 10 can see that the foot didn’t come off by accident.’
‘So he confirmed your suspicions.’
She looks at me blankly. ‘More than that, sir. He promised me he’d look out for the rest of the body.’
5
In his late thirties, Gerald Davey has curly dark hair cropped to the shape of his skull. A V-shaped scar sits over his left ear. He is Leanne Lobb’s mentor at Tregarrett School and Maloney has arranged for me to meet him.
‘Sorry you had to wait.' He says unconvincingly, blinking rapidly five times, closing a door behind him to stop me casting a quick glance into a room where teachers and assistants are gathered for lunch break: a TV is switched on a news channel, its sound subdued, and a handful of people sit with half-forgotten cups of tea and their eyes glued to tablets and mobile phones.
'No problem.' I show him my warrant card which he scrutinizes with care, but I don’t yet explain the reason for my visit. He doesn't ask.
'Lunch time's almost over. They'll be back before you know it.' He can’t hide a hint of despondency.
Following him into an unusually quiet school, he rubs his hands together as if they’re cold. He opens a door and we enter an empty classroom with desks in neat rows and sheets of black paper with graphic designs in primary colours pinned on one wall. Motioning towards the chair behind his own desk, he leans back on the edge of the desk, not managing to appear casual.
What every body is saying: DI Tregunna Cornish Crime novel Page 4
