What every body is saying: DI Tregunna Cornish Crime novel

by Carla Vermaat

I suppress a sigh. My annoyance with the man increases with each second. 'Mr Carter, I'm just checking if ...'

  ‘Checking, huh? No need for that, I can promise you. I keep my end of the deal, you keep yours, understood?'

  Deal? My silence is filled with his frustration and anger, then there is another bark, 'Who are you?'

  I hesitate. Something is preventing me from disclosing the fact that I am a police officer. He doesn't sound like the most cooperative of people and I'm convinced he will cut me off as soon as I tell him I'm a police officer investigating the disappearance of a girl he ignores and despises only because of her background.

  ‘You haven’t told me who you are.’

  'Haven’t I?' I feel like a recalcitrant teenager, bending words and sentences for my own comfort and for the sole reason to annoy him further. ‘Ehm … I’m Andy. Can I have Siobhan’s mobile number?’

  A gasp and I hear a woman sobbing. Papers rustle. Quick footsteps. A door closing.

  ‘Listen, Andy, if that is your real name. Who are you? What do you want with my daughter?’

  ‘As I said, I would like to ask her some questions.’

  A discussion follows. Raised voices, sadly not understandable.

  Then he blurts, ‘Are you a reporter?’

  I contemplate this. There must be something wrong there. Carter is a business man, and, according to information I retrieved from several websites, an important one in the local business community. Perhaps he’s involved in some business deal he doesn’t want to release to the press yet.

  ‘No, nothing like that, sir. But this is kind of an emergency. Or rather, it could be. I believe your daughter might be able to tell me about the whereabouts of her friend.’ I am hesitant to mention Leanne’s name. Lobb told me how strongly Carter feels about the friendship between the girls and I'd rather not jeopardize their secret meetings and get-togethers.

  ‘Her friend? Is that what this is all about?’

  ‘Yes. This is about one of Siobhan’s friends, Mr Carter. I am a police officer. My name is Andy Tre…’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I am a police officer of Devon and Cornwall Police. I am investigating the disappearance of …’

  ‘You’ve got a nerve!’

  ‘Sorry?’

  He doesn’t reply. The line is dead.

  9

  Early morning, and the sun is rising behind the hills. Newquay is almost deserted. Delivery vans are parked in the shopping street, drivers are whistling cheerfully or looking grumpy. The sun hasn’t risen high enough to shine over the harbour. I shiver in my jacket, wishing I’d put on a jumper.

  The tide is coming in, but not yet far enough to fill the harbour. Birds pick in the muddy sand for a breakfast treat. The drumming sound of an engine is background music to the cries of the seagulls hovering above the fishing vessels that are moored up in the shallow waters. The Anna-Louise is standing upright on her keel, steadied by struts which are secured in the sand. The first ripples of seawater are gently lapping it. As soon as the tide is high and lifts the vessel afloat, she will be away for who knows how many days.

  I stop at the water’s edge, my feet between thick rusty chains that are attached to the fishing boats lined up on the beach along the tide line. ‘Mr Trebilcock? Clem Trebilcock?’

  I look up at the boat, hearing someone moving something. The sharp shrieking of steel on steel. A short ladder leans against one side of the boat.

  ‘Mr Trebilcock?’ I call again and a man’s head appears from above the bow. ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Do you have a minute?’

  ‘Not now.’ He chuckles.

  ‘So when …?’

  'Whenever we’re back.’ A second man emerges from behind him. Younger, curious. His body has the same shape as the older man. Shoulders as wide and strong, although the older man’s face has been more often exposed to the elements.

  ‘It is about …’ I almost explain the reason for my visit, but suddenly I am aware that there are other fishermen preparing to leave the harbour. ‘It’s about what you discussed with Jennette Penrose.’

  ‘Ah, the lass, hey?’

  His grin is mischievous and I’m glad that Penrose didn’t come with me. She wouldn’t have appreciated his reaction, or the tone of his voice.

  ‘About the foot?’

  Then, I notice someone peer from the deckhouse of another fishing boat, and I realise how silly I am in trying to be secretive about what seems to have become common knowledge amongst all the fishermen.

  ‘Yes.’

  He thinks about it, lifts his head to feel the wind on his face and to scrutinize the sky for signs that there may be a sudden change in the weather. Then, quickly making up his mind, he exchanges a few words to the younger man whom I presume is his son, and surprisingly quickly comes down the ladder.

  He’s wearing a grey woollen hat, a black home-knit woollen jumper. His yellow oil skin trousers are stuffed into long yellow boots.

  ‘I’m sorry to keep you,’ I start, but he dismisses my apology with a short nod. ‘Got time for coffee?’

  He points at the long building which houses a busy café in the season, but is now more or less closed, although there is a lone board on the sand promising pasties and soup of the day.

  The building is perched between the beach and the cliffs that rise up to the town above. Next to it is the entrance of the Treffry tunnel. A vital piece of Newquay’s history, often overlooked by tourists and passersby, the tunnel once provided a link between the packhorses delivering Cornish minerals along the tramway and the harbour where the minerals were shipped for smelting elsewhere. Today, the remains of the tunnel are used to house the Rowing Club’s Pilot gigs.

  Tables and chairs are stacked up to one side, only a few are available for possible visitors. Trebilcock opens the café’s door, shouting a greeting and an order for two coffees and grabs a chair, placing his so that he can keep an eye on the tide, the weather and his boat.

  ‘I knew you were police,’ he says matter-of-factly, lowering his big body onto the seat that seems too small for him. He has a thick Cornish accent.

  ‘My name is Andy Tregunna.’

  He narrows his eyes. ‘Cornish?’

  ‘Born and bred.’

  He nods approvingly, making me feel like I’ve passed the test. ‘Why do you want to speak to me?

  ‘DC Penrose told you about a man’s foot that was found at Pendennis Point earlier this week.’

  ‘She did. She showed me a photo.’ From behind long bristly eyebrows, his sea grey eyes sparkle with amusement. ‘I told her that a foot cut off like that, can’t possibly have been caused by an incident on board. Does your forensics confirm that?’ Without waiting for my reply, he jerks his head towards the window. Smaller boats moored at the quay are floating on the gentle waves rolling in from the ocean. ‘Alf, from the Evening Sun, had his arm cut off. It happened twelve years ago, but I can still see in my mind what it looked like when I took off his coat. I’d never seen anything like it then and I haven’t seen anything like it since. It was all flesh and bones and blood, inspector.’

  ‘You saved his life.’

  He shrugs. ‘We were together, out at sea. In the distance, we could see the harbour, but I knew we couldn’t waste any time. He wouldn’t have survived if he’d been on his own.’ He interrupts my next thoughts, which remain unspoken. ‘What is it exactly you're after, Mr Tregunna? I told that lass. Incidents like she described and showed me on the photo don't happen on boats like mine. It wasn't anything like Alf’s accident either, that’s for sure.’

  He stops abruptly when a tall and slender woman brings us two mugs and a handful of biscuits, each wrapped in red and gold cellophane. He nods by way of a thank you and she replies with a smile that suggests that they know each other outside the harbour as well.

  ‘Do you know who the poor man was?’

  ‘Hard to tell.’

  ‘I’d have thought that forensics are clever enough nowadays.’
<
br />   ‘I’m sure they’ll do their utmost.’ I pull an envelope from my pocket. ‘You told my colleague that you would call her if you found the rest of him.’

  ‘So it was a man then?’

  ‘Just a manner of speaking. I haven’t seen the post mortem report yet.’ At least that fact is true. I look up at him. ‘What made you say that to her?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘About the rest of him.’

  Narrowing his eyes, he studies me for a long time. ‘Isn’t that obvious, inspector? The foot was cut off. Or should I say sawn off? It must have belonged to a dead person.’

  ‘What happened to the arm of your mate? Alf?’

  He shrugs. ‘It went overboard. No point in trying to rescue it. We were at open sea. It was rough enough as it was. I could barely apply a tourniquet and steady a man conscious enough to know what is happening to him.’

  ‘He was conscious?’ I ask incredulously. I can only but try to imagine what it must have been like: two fishermen in a small fishing vessel dancing on the waves of the Atlantic, both panicking, one desperately trying to help keep his mate alive, the other already seeing his life passing before him.

  Trebilcock nods. ‘He was. All the time. Never forgotten his face when he looked down at where his arm was a few seconds earlier.’

  ‘He must have been in a hell of a lot of pain.’

  ‘Pain comes afterwards. In the beginning you feel nothing.’

  I’d rather not speculate if it is true. ‘Is he still a fisherman?’

  ‘Of course. Fishing is in his family, his blood, his genes. He can’t live without the sea.’

  Retrieving a printed photo which Penrose emailed last night, I push it in his direction. He studies it quietly. His face has no expression. ‘Is this what I think it is?’

  ‘A torso. Yes.’

  ‘I thought so. Same person?’

  ‘Results haven’t confirmed it, but we’re working on the assumption that it is one body.’

  He pushes the photo back to me. ‘What do you want from me?’

  ‘I hope you can make me understand why the foot was found at Pendennis Point near Falmouth and the torso in a rock pool on the other coast, at Treyarnon Bay.

  He whistles through his teeth. ‘Other coast, hey? Now there you got a problem, inspector.’

  ‘That was my thinking exactly, Mr Trebilcock.’

  He grins, again mischievously. ‘I hope you’re not here to ask me where to look for the rest?’

  ‘It did cross my mind.’

  ‘Have you heard about the containership that lost part of its cargo?’

  ‘Container ship?’

  ‘Hmm. You must have heard about it, inspector. What was it, sixteen, eighteen years ago? A containership was caught by a huge wave and fifty-something containers washed into the sea off Lands End. One of the containers contained millions of pieces of Lego.’

  ‘How is Lego related to body parts?’

  ‘That is precisely my point. It tells you that we don’t understand the sea at all. We can send people to the moon and launch rockets that take a decade to reach another planet, circle around it and send back photos and charts to us. But we can’t predict what the sea does. A bit, yes, our maths can tell us about tide times and such, but that is more or less all. When you think about it logically, the containers should have sunk and still be lying somewhere on the seabed near Lands End. Even if the container was ripped open, you would expect that the Lego bricks would also remain on the seabed. Lego doesn’t float. It’s made of ABS plastic which is heavier than water so it will not float naturally. Some small bricks will float initially as small bubbles cling to their surface but they will all sink eventually. Then how is it possible that the Lego pieces wash up all around our coastline? And beyond. They say the pieces are even found in the USA.’

  I shake my head, slightly taken aback by his response. ‘Fishermen use sophisticated equipment nowadays,’ I say slowly. ‘They can detect shoals of fish. They don’t rely on the so-called ‘huer’s’ any more, to call from the hut high on the rocks and wake the whole village as soon as he notices a shoal of pilchards,’ I add, referring to the rich history of Newquay harbour. From here, I can’t see the white painted ‘huer’s hut’ on the cliffs, but I know it’s there, albeit nowadays only for the purpose of tourists photographing it with the spectacular sea view and hazy headland beyond.

  ‘Technology may have improved, inspector, even for us fishermen, but it‘s still not as straightforward as you think.’

  ‘Maybe not. But coming back to the original subject, Mr Trebilcock, you know the sea better than me. You understand the sea.’

  ‘I wouldn’t dare to claim that I know and understand the sea, inspector. I respect it, I respect its powers. I fear and admire it. I love and hate it. I can’t live with or without it. My life depends on it in many ways. The sea may be peaceful and blue to you on a summer’s day, but it can be mean and cruel and a devil as well.’

  ‘Are you saying that you can’t help me?’

  ‘I wish I could.’

  I know he is serious and not shunning my questions. Yet I feel disappointed.

  ‘But I know someone who might be able to help you, inspector. I say might … be able to help you.’ He picks up his mug and gulps down its contents. ‘She’s a carer, but also a keen amateur oceanographer in her spare time. She also belongs to a group with like-minded souls who are involved in currents and tidal electricity at the moment. If she can’t help you, I’m sure she knows someone who will.’ He grins as he rises to his feet, towering over me, almost blocking the light like in a full eclipse. ‘But don’t expect her to know the sea, Mr Tregunna.’

  I follow him with my eyes as he takes both our mugs and places them on the counter. A woman shouts a thank-you and I follow him outside where the beach has disappeared by a few meters and some of the fishing boats are already afloat, pulling at ropes and chains.

  ‘There is one thing I do know, though, inspector,’ he says earnestly when I shake his calloused hand. ‘It wasn’t as clear on the photo of the foot in the shoe, but by the looks of it the torso can’t have been in the water for too long. I'm not one of your forensic specialists but I’d say about 24 hours, not much longer. And I’m pretty sure the foot and the torso weren’t dumped in the water at the same point.’

  ‘Are you sure of that?’

  My ignorance amazes him. ‘That container foundered 20 miles from Land’s End. It took the Lego bricks about eighteen years to wash up on our beaches. And they still do. It’s impossible for a torso and a foot to travel such a distance in a couple of days.’

  ‘So you’re saying …’

  ‘Yes inspector, in my opinion it’s pretty clear that someone disposed of those body parts at different places. I’d say you’re dealing with a shrewd murderer.’

  I watch him climb the ladder getting back on board of the Anna-Louise.

  Mid-way back up the steep road into town I have to stop and gulp for air. Leaning against the low wall and looking down on to the harbour I see him arguing with his mate.

  It suddenly occurs to me that he didn’t mention the possibility of the body parts being thrown overboard from a boat. Or a fishing trawler.

  10

  The incident room is cold and damp. Or perhaps it’s the frosty atmosphere that drops on each of us like an invisible veil when Maloney comes in, lips pursed and wearing an air of misguided self-importance.

  His eyebrows rise when he spots me and he is about to say something, most likely to enquire what I’m doing here, when a voice says sarcastically: ‘Morning, sir.’

  In reply he only nods, not even wondering whether he’s being mocked. He frowns as Penrose rushes in, face flushed, and finding a seat nearest to the door, as her escape route. ‘Now that we’re all here, let’s get started, shall we?’

  He summarizes and analyses the current cases, listening to shortened reports and suggestions, issuing instructions for house visits, updates and new leads. If any.<
br />
  Much to my surprise the case of Leanne Lobb’s disappearance seems to be more or less closed. She has come home. Reports are being written and documents filed. It occurs to me that Guthrie’s initial view on this case had been right after all: Lobb wasted our time.

  As soon as everyone has left the incident room to find the coffee machine and start work – in that order - I read the report of PC Isabel Ward who had been appointed as the family liaison officer when we all feared for Leanne’s safety. She was there when the fourteen-year-old appeared out of the blue as if nothing had happened. She hasn’t wasted more time on the report which is curt and devoid of details.

  I find her blocking the door to the Ladies talking to DC Champion, who is half her age, offering a recipe that involves different variations of seaweed. I half listen to her explanation of red, green and brown algae in vegetarian dishes, thinking I’d prefer a medium rare steak. I’d better not say that to either of them if I don’t wish to make enemies.

  ‘Andy?’ She smiles as Champion closes the door behind her.

  I lean against the wall, trying to appear casual. ‘You were there when Leanne Lobb came home?’

  ‘Yes.’ Her plucked eyebrows lift with the corners of her mouth.

  ‘What happened?’

  She opens her mouth as if to suggest I should read her report but she thinks twice. She knows me well enough to understand that I’m after the details, the unspoken words, the body language.

  ‘Sorry, Andy, I’m on my way to meet someone.‘ She stares at me and adds: ‘You can come with me if you like. I’m all yours in the car.’

  Her expression shows only kindness, but I sense from her words that she too feels that there is more to Leanne’s return than her report suggests. I nod, not asking where her appointment is.

  ‘Why your interest?’ she asks as soon as she starts the engine and turns off the instant blaring music.

  ‘Loose ends.’

  ‘Something nagging you?’ She checks her lips in the make-up mirror, flaps it back.

  ‘Perhaps.’

  ‘I know what you mean. I have exactly the same feeling.’ She pulls out of the car park, waiting patiently for a gap in the traffic that’s moving slowly behind a recycling truck. Men in bright orange jackets and grubby trousers are collecting waste for recycling from the pavements, emptying coloured bags with plastics, paper and carton into the different compartments in the truck.