What every body is saying: DI Tregunna Cornish Crime novel

by Carla Vermaat

  Approaching the side of the car, I bend over and knock on the window on the driver’s side. He has a pair of binoculars in his hand. As he presses the button to open the window, he tries to hide it out of sight but he’s not quick enough.

  ‘Sorry,’ I say. ‘Do you need any help?’

  He is in is early thirties, with spiky blonde hair and a black stud in his eyebrow.

  The smell of fatty chips drifts towards me through the few centimetres of open window.

  ‘Help?’ He asks incredulously, still fumbling with the binoculars.

  I take out my mobile, holding it up as though to illustrate what I’m referring to. ‘I suppose there’s no signal?’

  The passenger leans over towards his driver. He is older, dark skinned with straight black hair and a flat nose. I’m not sure if he’s recognized me, but he narrows his eyes as he looks up to peer through the open window. ‘Why?’

  ‘Sorry.’ I shake my head in confusion, holding up my mobile again, wondering if I dare be bold enough to take a photo of them. Perhaps that isn’t such a good idea.

  ‘I thought you needed help. Mobile signals are a random thing here in Cornwall I’m afraid. Even rain can interfere with connections sometimes,’ I say casually. I press my finger on the screen and there is a flash of light.

  ‘What the …?’ The driver shouts.

  ‘Sorry.’ I quickly slide my mobile into my pocket, stepping back with one foot. ‘My mistake.’

  ‘What are you on about, mate?’ The passenger is fumbling with his seat belt which is still strapped across his chest.

  ‘Sorry,’ I say again, shaking my head as though astonished by my own stupidity. ‘I thought you had a flat tyre and were waiting for help. I thought you may not have been able to call the RAC or Green Flag or something, because you lose connection so easily round here, with the lake and the hill and the river and all that.’

  ‘A flat tyre?’ His angry voice interrupts.

  Too late, I realise that I have now managed to do what I had tried to avoid in the first place: that one of them, or both of them, will get out and inspect the tyre. The passenger, a pack of muscles, moves to open the door.

  ‘No, it isn’t flat after all,’ I say hastily, but he climbs out. ‘Your tyre. I’m so sorry.’

  He is standing on the pavement, staring at me as I step away from the car.

  ‘I didn’t see it very well in the dark. It looked like a flat tyre, but it isn't,’ I repeat. ‘Honestly. I’m so sorry.’

  ‘Oh.’ He still looks incredulous, as if a stand-up comedian has told a joke and he is the only one in the audience not laughing, asking himself where and why he missed the point.

  ‘No worries,’ I grin stupidly, backing off further, but taking too much time for my own liking to decide whether to make a run for the gate or continue on the pavement. I hear the engine starting when I opt for the first option where the path leads to a small bridge across the stream that supplies the lake with fresh water. On the other side is an overspill system constructed to release water from the Gannel to keep the lake at the same level all the time.

  I reach the bridge, gasping for breath, heart pounding. Slowing down, I take a quick look over my shoulder and almost laugh out loud. The car has gone, the sound of its engine is dissolving in the clatter of rain on the tarmac path.

  15

  It is amazing how the hospital always feels and looks different depending on why you have come. Finding my way through the long main corridors that are intermittently obstructed by fire doors, I dread the sight of the place when I come for X-rays or scans, or even to have my blood taken, let alone to see a consultant to hear the results. But when I come to see Becca, however sad it is to see her lying motionless and vacant in her bed, I always feel relieved. I am free and able to walk out of there whenever I choose to whereas she can’t.

  Mr Grose is in the Neurology ward. The nurse at the desk recognizes me. Smiles. Her cheeks are pink. I remember her name when I look at her name badge. Rosie.

  ‘I’ve never seen you here on a Saturday morning.’

  It takes me a while to realise that she assumes that I have come to see Becca. It’s incredible that I didn’t grasp that Mr Grose and Becca are almost in adjacent rooms.

  ‘I saw her a few days ago. I’m here to see Mr Archibald Grose.’

  Her smile shows a hint of sadness. Neither Becca nor Mr Grose has many visitors.

  ‘Are you family?’ she asks, making conversation as she studies a blue screen behind her on the wall.

  ‘My mother is a … friend. He asked to see me.’

  ‘He sleeps a lot. Don’t worry about it too much if he falls asleep. He probably won’t even remember that you came to see him.’

  ‘Thanks for the warning,’ I say but I ask for his room number.

  ‘Room 12.’ She smiles. Frowns. ‘Will you be seeing Becca as well?’

  I didn’t intend to, but for some reason I can’t admit it. It’ll probably make me feel guilty when I leave without seeing her. Even though she won’t be aware that I’m there. ‘As soon as I’ve seen Mr Grose.’ I turn on my heels. ‘Why do you ask?’

  She looks a bit uncomfortable. ‘One of the other nurses, Bethany, suggested putting some bunting up in her room. Balloons. Cards. Nice smelling flowers. But we thought we’d ask you first.’

  ‘Why?’ As soon as I hear myself asking why, I realise that she is misunderstanding me. She thinks I don’t see the point in celebrating the birthday of someone who will not be aware of it, let alone able to enjoy it. I don’t tell her that I’d completely forgotten about the birthday.

  ‘It’s not that I don’t think it’s important,’ she says hesitantly. ‘People wake up from comas after several years. Decades even. But with Becca ….’ Her voices tails off. Then she takes a deep breath and continues a bit more optimistically. ‘All the same, we can only make a wild guess about what coma patients can hear or feel or sense. If she is aware of anything, perhaps it would be a nice gesture to celebrate her birthday, if you agree?’

  ‘Yes,’ I reply, but I’m not convinced. Neither do I welcome the feeling that I’m expected to be in charge of everything. I am not Becca’s relative. To a certain extent we might have been acquaintances, rather than friends, although she would probably disagree with that.

  ‘Perhaps you could have a word with Bethany when you come back from Mr Grose?’

  ‘I will,’ I say, feeling as though I have become a rather unwilling member of their team.

  The room is for two patients. The patient closest to the door has left perhaps for some treatment or a fag. A pile of magazines and folded papers are on his bedside table, about two dozen cards on the board above his head.

  Mr Grose is sitting in a comfortable chair beside a hospital bed piled high with pillows with a bed trapeze lifting system dangling over it. Across his legs is a pale blue hospital blanket that reminds me of my time in hospital after my operation. He doesn’t look much older than the man I remember; I’ve always thought of him as a very old man.

  He’s had several strokes and is paralyzed on one side. His right arm lies at a strange angle on the armrest of his chair and it takes me a while to notice that it is strapped on with black Velcro. His mouth is askew and slightly open on one side, allowing a trickle of saliva to run down his chin. Every so often he uses a blue check handkerchief to wipe it away with a look of disgust on his face. No matter how much he has been deprived of by the strokes, his dignity is still in place. I see sadness in his eyes when he sees me looking at him.

  ‘I never expected it to end like this.’ His speech is slurred and soft and comes out with great difficulty. I have to lean closer to hear him.

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘It’s not your fault, boy.’

  I wonder if he realizes that I am much older than the boy who sat next to him and listened to fond memories of his wife.

  ‘My mother said you asked to see me.’

  ‘Yes.’ A tear wriggles its way through
the creases on his face. ‘I’m not going back to my house.’

  It suddenly occurs to me that he had never spoken about it as his home. Perhaps it wasn’t his home any more after his wife’s death.

  ‘Ever.’

  ‘No.’ There is no point in arguing about it, although a lot of people, as sensitive and hesitant as my mother, probably would.

  ‘Someone needs to deal with my house.’

  ‘Would you like me to call your solicitor?’ I ask gently.

  ‘No. The official papers were taken care of years ago.’ He vaguely shakes his head and wipes his chin too late. Saliva drips onto the lapel of his dressing gown, leaving behind a dark wet stain. ‘My house … you’ve been in my kitchen.’

  ‘Yes.’ I can still feel the horror of that day and I feel sorry for the boy I was then, not understanding what had happened. It took me a long time to be able to fall asleep without thinking about it.

  ‘I can’t deal with that now,’ Mr Grose says sadly.

  ‘Is it still like it was … all those years ago?’ I ask incredulously.

  ‘She’s aged, you know, falling apart. As the years went by, I wanted … I knew I needed to do something about it, but I couldn’t.’ The good side of his bottom lip trembles. ‘You’ll have to be very careful.’

  I’m stunned. Of all the things I expected from this visit, I never thought he would ask me to deal with the body in his kitchen.

  ‘What would you like me to do, Mr Grose?’ I hear myself asking. The idea of going back there already gives me goose bumps.

  ‘I can’t bear the thought of … people touching her.’ His eyelids are drooping and it seems to be more difficult for him to keep his head up. He’s getting tired.

  ‘I see.’

  ‘I’d like you to go there and … take her away.’

  I feel like I have jumped off a bridge and landed in some sort of conspiracy. A joint enterprise. However reluctant I am to take part in it, I don’t seem to be able to ignore it. I am involved, no matter what or how or why.

  ‘Where would you like me to take her?’

  A tear has formed in one eye. ‘It doesn’t matter any more, boy, you decide.’

  Closing his good eye, while the other one remains half open, he stares at me between grey eye-lashes but without seeing me. He seems to have used all his energy.

  I get up, gently taking the handkerchief from between his fingers and wiping a drop of saliva from his chin. He murmurs, knowing, appreciating the gesture, nonetheless I feel I shouldn’t have done it.

  I leave his room without looking back, knowing instinctively that I will carry that last look of him with me for a long time. Instead, I try to retrieve from my memory the image of the man who was the first to treat me as an adult, the man who shared his biggest secret with me. In one sense, I have always seen him as a friend, a person I could trust if I needed someone.

  There is sadness in the air as I walk through the corridor and approach the nurse’s desk for the second time. Rosie is now in the company of two colleagues. A man in his early thirties with a stud in both ears, a tattooed ring around his neck, short dyed blonde hair and a gentle smile. A badge says that his name is Les Dunwell. Staff nurse. I have never seen him before. The other colleague is Mirabelle, who recognises me. ‘Mr. Tregunna!’

  I wish I hadn’t said that I would come back to discuss Becca’s birthday. I feel more like running away from this depressing ward where, in some cases, you can tell that life is ebbing away by the shallow breathing and the frail, skinny limbs laid out on the beds. Nobody wants to end up like this and it makes me wonder what the purpose of life is. How would Becca feel if she knew about her condition? Does Mr Grose realise what has become of him and why does he still cling on to life? Is he still hoping that one day, against all odds, he will be able to go back to his life or is he just quietly waiting, praying that he won’t last much longer?

  I have spoken to the consultant about Becca’s situation and life expectancy, but he simply stated that, legally, he is restricted to dealing with her next of kin. Which is undeniably a difficult approach because there is only her sister, and her mother. I urge myself to stop here. Dorothy Trewoon is a chapter in a book that I don’t like opening. A book I would destroy if I could.

  ‘Has Bethany mentioned that we’d like to put bunting and balloons up in Becca’s room?’ Les Dunwell asks me almost cheerfully.

  ‘She did.’

  ‘What do you think? Would it be a good idea? Shall we have a cake as well?’

  I stare at him. I can’t believe that he’s serious and actually means a proper birthday cake. Judging by his expression, I think he is.

  ‘Why not?’ Perhaps the nurses need something to cheer themselves up. It can’t be easy to work on a ward, especially at this end of the corridor, where life and normality are seeping away from formerly proactive human beings. People do recover from strokes and brain damage, but it’s the ones who stay here much longer that you notice. And remember.

  ‘Leave it to us,’ Rosie nods with more confidence than I can muster. ‘If you can come in around coffee time in the morning, we will have everything ready.’

  ‘Okay.’ They are looking at me expectantly. I pull out my wallet and give them a few notes.

  ‘Thank you, sir.’ Rosie puts the money away in a cash box in a drawer. ‘Will you invite anyone else?’

  Sadly, there isn’t anyone. ‘Like who?’

  ‘Well, her mother …’

  ‘No.’ My tone is sharp and uncompromising. They exchange glances. Surprised, Shocked. I expect when a nurse comes on duty, they don’t read everything in a patient’s file. Only the relevant things necessary for their treatment and their prognosis.

  ‘She hasn’t got a mother.’ Somehow I find it difficult to think of Dorothy as Becca’s mother. It makes it too close. Too intimate. I still think it's unbelievable what a mother is capable of doing to her own child.

  ‘O, but I thought …’ Intimidated by my fixed gaze, Rosie looks at her colleagues for moral support.

  ‘It’s a bit difficult to explain, Rosie,’ says Les Dunwell gently. ‘But Becca’s mother won’t be coming for her birthday.’

  ‘Or her sister,’ adds Mirabelle with a sideways glance at me.

  ‘That’s right.’ I’ve had enough. Turning on my heels, I enter Becca’s room, pushing the door shut behind me, aware of the tenseness in my shoulders. I stand still at the foot of her bed. I listen to the bleeps of the monitors, a dripping tap making a dull plopping noise in a mug placed in the wash basin. I look at the tubes that are inserted into her body to keep her alive. Her breath is shallow, but stable. Her face is pale, with only a hint of blood colouring her cheeks. The nurses are right, she deserves a birthday party but it’s very sad that the nurses and I will be the only ones attending.

  16

  The weather forecast has attracted the last tourists of the season to flock into the county. The A30 is blocked at Temple, where the new part of the dual carriageway still hasn't materialised. Traffic has slowed to snail pace. Yellow speed cameras are too conspicuous to be ignored. Drivers of oversized four-wheel drive vehicles, which they treat as too precious to get scratched on stray brambles in the overgrown hedges, refuse to reverse on the narrow lanes.

  Joan Walters is about my height, slightly overweight, with straight hair cut to shoulder length, dark but with tell-tale streaks of grey, and a long thin face. She isn’t pretty, but her smile is warm and pleasant. She’s wearing black jeans and a bright blue padded jacket, zipped up to her chin. It’s hard to put an age to her.

  When the appointment was made, she didn’t give me her address but suggested I get on the little passenger ferry from Padstow to Rock. Feeling the tremors of the engine beneath my feet, the wind in my face, I look down the river to where Stepper Point and Pentire Head are guarding each side of the entrance to the estuary. I'm reminded of the day out with Lauren and the boys, which started with a promise and ended in an anti-climax. I haven’t spoken to he
r since I dropped them off at her home.

  Joan Walters is meeting me on the slipway where the ferry stops. A cautious woman, who makes me think she lives alone, but once had an abusive husband, from whom she escaped and who still appears in her nightmares and darker moments.

  ‘Sorry, Mr Tregunna,’ she says, smiling and shaking my hand with a firm grip, instantly making me change my mind about her. She isn’t the type to become the victim of any form of abuse. ‘I’d invite you home, if it weren’t for my father. He isn’t feeling very well today.’

  ‘Is it okay to see me? Should you be with him?’

  ‘No, no, it’s fine. Honestly.’ Following the other ferry passengers up the slipway, she makes a vague gesture towards a car park. ‘Do you mind if we have a walk?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ She looks me over, her eyes roaming from the top of my head down to my shiny black shoes. ‘I mean … you’re not exactly dressed for a walk on the beach.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter.’

  ‘It’s just … because of my father.’

  ‘I’m glad you agreed to see me in the first place.’

  Now that the head of the body has been washed up too, it’s all the more important to know where all the body parts were first dumped. The fact that three of the four parts have been found around Padstow has significantly increased the likelihood that they were dumped near there. The foot though, is a different matter. It seems highly unlikely that it drifted along the coast and washed up at Pendennis Point. The assumption that the foot has been chucked in the water on the other side of the coast to cause confusion, seems more plausible and I hope Joan Walters can confirm these thoughts.

  If there had been any suggestions that this was the result of an accident, they have all dissolved now into the certainty that we are dealing with a murder. I think of ‘we’, although I am not officially working on the case, which is both a relief as well as a frustration.