What every body is saying: DI Tregunna Cornish Crime novel

by Carla Vermaat

  She smiles. ‘Before or after dusk?’

  ‘Before. Absolutely.’

  But Lauren insists on a break. She has soft drinks and chocolate bars in her bag and we sit in the sand, enjoying the sun and the breeze which is gentler now than in the morning. The white sand of Doom Bar is almost translucent in the sun, stretching out in sweeping furrows towards the middle of the estuary. I tell them about a Cornish folk legend which says that it was a mermaid who created the Doom Bar as a dying curse on the harbour after she was shot by a local man, but another story, about all the ships having been wrecked on the treacherous sands on stormy nights, appeals to Joe and Stuart more.

  Jumping up and down, they are like foals in spring, or cattle just being released after spending the winter in a barn. Faces flushed and eyes sparkling, they haven’t got the patience to sit in the sand and enjoy the sun.

  ‘This is fun,’ Joe exclaims as he throws his arms in the air. ‘Come on, Stu, let’s race.’

  They run, using their arms as wings and swirl around like sea gulls gliding on the wind. Lauren makes herself comfortable with her head on her bag and I sit next to her. Wondering. Thinking. Dreaming.

  ‘Were you at Treliske hospital when I called?’ she asks hesitantly, quickly adding: ‘And I don’t mean to see Becca. I mean for you.’ She hasn’t opened her eyes.

  ‘Yes.’ There’s no point in denying it. ‘I had an appointment with Mr Cole. The surgeon.’

  ‘Everything all right?’

  ‘I suppose.’

  A flash of irritation appears in her eyes as she opens them and looks straight into mine. ‘I’m sorry for asking, Andy. I’m only … interested in your wellbeing. Forgive me for that!’ She snaps. ‘But if you’d rather not tell me …?’

  ‘The appointment was cancelled. The surgeon was called away on an emergency.’

  ‘That’s not the point I was making.’

  ‘It’s not that I don’t want you to know,’ I say miserably. ‘I don’t want to think about it.’

  ‘There’s no point in hiding your head in the sand.’

  ‘I know.’ I look away. There’s a wall of silence between us. She’s no longer a friend, she has become an enemy. I wish I could bury my face in her arms. And cry.

  ‘But you do.’

  I don’t respond. I can’t find any words. I feel utterly inadequate to deal with this. Every time I think about it, it stirs up a fear in me, a fear rooted in something I prefer to avoid talking about, despite knowing full well that I need to. Not to everyone, but at least to her.

  ‘I’m sorry, Lauren, but I …’

  Her face has softened. Anger is replaced by pity. I don’t know what I hate most.

  One of her sons is shouting, his voice driven towards us by a gust of wind. She looks up, shielding her eyes against the sun. I see them running through the puddles in the furrows formed by the swirling currents. Water splashes up beside their bare feet. I envy them for their youth, their innocence, their carefree life.

  ‘It looks like it’ll take a while to catch up with Stu and Joe.’ She points, quickly tossing the remains of our little picnic in her bag.

  ‘We’ve been lazy.’ I smile and stretch out my hand to help her rise to her feet. I can’t help it, but I guess I am holding her hand just a split-second too long. Her face is close enough to kiss her. She turns away from me, gazing past my shoulder, eyes searching for her sons.

  ‘Let’s make a move then,’ I say, trying not to show my disappointment. I offer to carry her bag, but she shakes her head.

  We walk in silence. The wall between us is beginning to crack. At least, I hope it is. The beach seems endless. The distance between us and the boys grows wider. It doesn’t seem to bother her any more as long as she can see them.

  They are heading for the white object we saw earlier. It’s close to Hawkers’ Cove, a small hamlet nestled in the arm of the headland. Where it once must have been a lively little place with trading vessels and a lifeboat, it is now almost deserted, as most of the houses are holiday homes and only a few are permanent residences. It used to have a quay where boats anchored to load and unload their cargo, but nowadays there is so much sand washed in from the ocean that it has silted up and become impossible to keep it open. It’s hard enough to keep the channel open for access to Padstow harbour without constant dredging.

  A harbour patrol vessel passes by with a noisy engine, two men on board grabbing the handrail to keep their balance as they head for the open sea. Or that’s what I think they’re heading for. There’s a flash of something bright yellow and it suddenly dawns on me what’s happening beyond Hawker’s Cove, what the white rectangle in the distance is.

  ‘The boys … we can’t let them go there.’ I blurt out, startling Lauren.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ she asks, panic already low in her voice.

  ‘I know what that white shape is,’ I say, shaking my head. ‘We can’t let the boys go there.’

  ‘Why not?’

  I swallow hard. ‘It’s the police.’

  She gasps and I don’t need to look at her to see that she knows, that she remembers the white tent that was erected by police to shield off the crime scene at a supermarket car park. It was months ago, but it must still be very much on her mind.

  ‘The boys … not again.’ Her eyes are open wide with shock and disbelief.

  ‘Exactly.’ I take her hand and keep up with her as fast as I can.

  We reach Stuart and Joe at sufficient distance from the police tent. They have stopped, standing motionless. Stuart turns his head as we approach, searching my face for a denial of what is obviously going on in his mind. He wants my reassurance; he wants me to tell him that it’s not what he thinks it is. Somehow I can’t. Instead, I gently reach out and pull him close to me, draping one arm around his shoulders, reaching for Joe with the other. He doesn’t move, probably amazed and embarrassed by my touch. I feel him looking up at me, but it isn’t me he sees.

  ‘What is it?’ Joe asks.

  ‘What’s happening?’ Stuart asks.

  Fortunately, we are too far away to see anything clearly. Five months ago, the two boys found a woman’s body wrapped in plastic. Memories of that horror and fear float over their identical faces, and then on Lauren’s. I want to shield them, protect them, but it’s too late. A police car stops next to the others, as close to the shore as possible, blue lights flashing but no siren. The harbour patrol vessel is pulled onto the sandbank. Men in yellow fluorescent jackets walk in a slow line along the side of the hill with their heads down, eyes scrutinising the ground. Every so often, one of them stops and raises an arm. Bends down. Shaking his head. False alarm.

  ‘What are they looking for?’ Laurens voice is raw and low. She looks up at me. The dark flecks in her eyes seem to float like spilled oil on water. Our eyes meet for the briefest of moments, and I want to put my arms around her, close her eyes to create a barrier between her mind and the horror she has already recognised. She seeks reassurance which I can’t give her.

  ‘Come on, we’d better go to the Lobster Hatchery before it closes,’ I say, in a vague attempt to distract them. But none of us is in the mood so we head back to the car and Newquay in silence.

  14

  It’s still light outside. I pour myself a glass of water and lean over the balcony and try not to think about the day with Lauren and her sons. Some things can hurt too much. It’s better to concentrate on work, however little there is to think about. Leanne Lobb is safe at home with her parents and I haven’t heard about the progress with the body parts. I have called the station, but the woman at the desk is new. She isn’t going to disclose any information to someone she doesn’t know. My suspicion that another body part was found today on the rocks between Hawker’s Cove and Stepper Point remains unconfirmed.

  Restlessly, I wake my laptop and find a few emails that were sent about an hour ago but didn’t appear in my inbox until now.

  Penrose has emailed me with several attachments. Th
e first is the statement of Charles Walker, a young man who saw a hand sticking out of the mud on the bank of the Camel Estuary and briefly feared it was his little daughter, reaching out for her father's help. When he saw her standing on a piece of solid rock beside him, waving at the hand, he burst into tears, panicked, grabbed her under his arm and hurried to the picnic table where his wife Justine was still sitting in the sun, sipping fruit juice and staring into oblivion with dreamy eyes. They had just found out that she was pregnant.

  In the second attachment, I find the latest post mortem report along with Andrea Burke’s findings confirming that all three body parts belong to the same person. The last attachment is a brief statement of enquiries made after the discovery of the hand by local police, summarised that, in the absence of the rest of the corpse, and albeit unlikely, it was believed that the person had survived. The file had ended up in someone’s bottom drawer.

  The photo of the hand reminds me of my conversation with Clem Trebilcock and I pick up my mobile phone, pulling it from the charger.

  ‘Can I call you back?’ Joan Walters answers the phone after the fifth ring.

  ‘Is it possible to have a word?’ I say after I’ve introduced myself.

  ‘I’m driving.’ I can hear traffic. The radio in her car crackles.

  ‘I can call you back. What would be a convenient time?’

  She doesn’t answer. Instead, she asks cautiously, ‘What did you say this is about?’

  ‘I didn’t. I got your name from Clem Trebilcock. He’s a fisherman from Newquay.’

  ‘Oh. And?’

  ‘He recommended you. He says that you know everything about tides and currents.’

  ‘I wouldn’t say that,’ she replies, nevertheless pleased with the compliment.

  ‘I’m pretty sure you know more than I do.’

  ‘Okay. Sorry. My traffic light’s turned green. I have to cut you off. If you send a text message to my phone, then I’ll try and call you later.’ A lady who certainly knows what she wants.

  I return to the balcony. The sky is pale blue, and the clouds drifting in from the ocean are bright pinks and oranges. The air is growing colder and I go back inside, closing the door behind me. I sit down and switch the TV on. Coronation Street is working itself to a climax, making sure viewers will want to watch the conclusion of the conversation between two sisters having fallen for the same man. The programme is followed by a police drama based in the fictional county of Midsomer. Probably written with a huge wink to the police, it has an extraordinary average of three deaths per episode. Nevertheless, I enjoy watching it, although I wouldn’t admit it to my colleagues.

  My landline rings. It takes me a few moments to realise that the sharp sound isn't coming from the TV, where Barnaby and his sidekick are today dealing with the murder of two prostitutes, a car dealer and a homeless man. Barnaby picks up the ringing phone on his desk, but the ringing continues.

  'Tregunna.'

  'O hello Andy. This is Cindy, from Sunrise in Treliske.'

  Sunrise sounds lovely, but it is also the oncology department. My first instinct is to put the phone down. Bury my head in the sand.

  'Yes Cindy?' She's one of those nurses who always seems to have time for everyone and replies to every question in the most honest and truthful way, choosing her words carefully so that nobody can get too upset.

  'You had an appointment with Mr Cole this week, when he was called out for an emergency.'

  'Correct.'

  'You didn't make a new appointment.' It is a statement but it feels like an accusation.

  'No, there was a queue at the desk. I thought it would be better to call.'

  She doesn't remind me that I haven't called.

  'That's okay, Andy.' She makes it sound as though she knows exactly what’s going on in my head. ‘Can I then put your name down for next week? Wednesday?'

  I can't find an excuse to postpone the appointments much further ahead.

  'Feeling like a schoolboy caught in some naughty act, I scribble the details on the edge of a magazine.

  I empty the glass of water and pour a large whisky instead. I guess it’s one of those days that one needs something stronger than water. With the glass in my hand, I force my attention on Penrose's notes and Charles Walker’s statement. Walker said he told his wife to pack their things and get on the hired bike with their daughter, and ride back to their holiday cottage in Wadebridge. She didn’t ask why, just looked in his eyes and quietly obeyed. When he was alone again, he kneeled on the small stony beach to keep an eye on the hand, not daring to touch it as by that time it had occurred to him that there must be a body attached to it. It was only at that point that he took out his mobile to call the police, finding there was no signal. Hoping that nobody else would make the same horrible discovery as he had, he raced to the old iron railway bridge across a tributary of the river.

  The recording of his message confirms that he was there when he made the call. The woman who took the call had difficulty hearing him because the wind was whistling through the bridge. He then hurried back down to the little beach and waited for the arrival of two local police officers.

  By the time the police had everything in place to examine the body and remove the rest of it from the mud, the tide was coming in and only the dead person’s fingertips were visible above the surface. Charles Walker was so upset by everything that he was taken to a local doctor and given sleeping pills.

  I pace up and down my flat. I think about the hand. Leanne Lobb. Lauren. Mr Cole. No, not Mr Cole. Sally Pollinger. My mother. But not Mr Cole.

  I’ve almost lost my appetite. Guiltily, I look at the fresh vegetables; they’ll have to remain in the fridge. Retrieving a frozen meal from the freezer, I read the instructions and place it in the microwave. While the plate rotates behind the glass door, I look out of the window and stare across the lake. The colourful sunset has turned to dull grey. The first leaves have already blown off the trees that surround the boating lake. A tall skinny man walks slowly along the path, hands tucked deep into his trouser pockets, a small white dog on a lead making its owner’s life difficult as it twists and turns around poles and shrubs and trees. A woman, also with a dog, hurries away from him as though he has somehow scared her. I have seen both of them many times before. The woman lives in one of the bungalows opposite me beyond the lake; the man always disappears under the huge brick pylons of the railway bridge that spans over the valley. He’s one of those people who make others wary and suspicious because of his grubby appearance.

  His dog has stopped near a silver grey car parked on the side of the road, lifting its leg to pee on the front wheel of the car. The man waits patiently, not in the least bit bothered by his dog’s actions. The microwave pings that my meal is ready but a movement in the corner of my eyes stops me from turning away from the window.

  The driver of the car has climbed out, blocking the dog owner’s path. I follow the brief encounter. Not so much a conversation with words, but with body language. The driver is angry; the dog owner shrugs indifferently pulling at the lead. Although I can’t see it, I presume there is someone else in the car, as the driver bends towards the opened window and shakes his head. Grabbing the opportunity, the dog owner swiftly moves away. A real life soap episode in a nutshell.

  I go back and sit down again at the table which is now covered with papers. On the left are my original scribbled notes about Leanne Lobb and the copies of my reports and emails to colleagues to keep them updated. On the right are copies of Penrose's case. I reply to her email, thanking her for her efforts, letting her know that I have made contact with Joan Walters, an amateur oceanographer, as Trebilcock had suggested, and invite Penrose to come with me to meet her.

  Her reply comes straight away. She's too busy. There’s been a development: the head of a man has been found near Steppers Point at the entrance to the Camel Estuary.

  I am starting to imagine things. Like there is still someone sitting in the car that has sur
vived an attack from a little white dog. It’s too far away to see clearly but I am convinced that I can see movement behind the side window. Why would anyone sit inside a car for forty-five minutes?

  I shut the blinds. Dust whirls off them. They're rarely used. I have no neighbours across from me and my floor is too high up for passers-by to peer in. I contemplate sneaking out and walking round the lake, past the car to check if anyone is inside, and make a note of the licence plate.

  Ridiculous thoughts. Yet, I can’t get rid of them.

  Peeping through the blinds, I notice a flicker of orange light. Although we’re not supposed to smoke in our own cars these days, I wonder if the driver has lit a cigarette. I consider searching for a half-forgotten pair of binoculars when it strikes me that this is exactly what I can see: the orange light of a lamp post is reflected in both lenses of a pair of binoculars which is pointing right at me. Then I remember my heated up meal in the microwave but neither this nor the rain will stop me any more. I change into darker clothes, put my navy blue jacket on and find a woollen hat in a drawer amongst my socks and underwear. With my phone in my hand in one pocket of the jacket, I sneak out of the building and head for the shadows of the hedges that mark the line between the road and the park. At the far end of the lake, opposite the River Gannel and its faint smell of mud and decay, I turn and go back the other way. There’s a stretch of pavement beside the road, and a path that winds its way round the boating lake. I choose the latter, regretting it almost instantly because at this hour, and in the rain, every person without a dog looks suspicious. For that reason, I use the next gate to get back onto the pavement.

  There’s a camper van parked behind the silver grey car. I stand a few feet behind it, peering through the back window. I half expect to find a courting couple in the car, not two men. Making a mental note of the licence plate, repeating it several times to myself, I move forward as if in a hurry, with my hands in my pockets and my head tucked under my collar as if I am sheltering against the cold air and the rain.