What every body is saying: DI Tregunna Cornish Crime novel

by Carla Vermaat

  She’s obviously used to making statements that come from nowhere. What she isn’t used to is getting a truthful answer. For a moment she stares at me, half in shock. Then she nods, contemplating what to say next.

  I try the hot coffee in an attempt to obscure my face behind the steam that comes off it, almost deciding to get up as if I need to use the toilets.

  ‘Has yours got a name?’

  Curiosity sets in slowly. They say that mad people can be funny. Or that funny people are mad. Either way, I remain seated.

  ‘I'm not sure what you mean.’

  ‘I bet.’ She drops her needles again and blows into her mug. ‘At some point Alistair decided to assume squatter’s rights in my bowel. Thankfully he was evicted by Mr Cole three months ago.’ She smiles sadly when she looks at my face. ‘Alistair is my tumour.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘He’s named after a boy who lived next to us when I was a child. He made my life a misery. First by teasing me and nagging me every hour of the day, later by dating every other girl in our class, but not me. When I finally got his attention, I was so flabbergasted that he made me pregnant and left me when I told him.’

  Another life in a nutshell.

  ‘Is he still around?’

  Her face breaks in a wide smile. ‘Him or the tumour? Well, actually both are still somewhere out there. Although we’ve never kept in contact, the man Alistair lives with me through our daughter. From my scans three months ago, the other Alistair is still alive in all the nooks and crannies in my bowel, but I expect to hear from Mr Cole that the course of chemo tablets has annihilated the last traces of his malicious remains.’

  The trolley with empty mugs rattles behind us. We are offered a top up, and more biscuits. We decline in unison. The interruption could have ended the conversation, but the woman isn’t finished.

  ‘I'm still feeling shell-shocked about all of this, you see. I never had any signs. They found out when I sent off that bowel cancer research thing. I’d nearly chucked it in the bin but my husband found it caught between other papers.’ Her smile fades a little. ‘My way of coping is by giving things names. I hope you don't really think I'm mad ... but maybe I am.’

  ‘Everyone deals with it in a different way.‘

  ‘I guess.’ She’s had enough of her knitting. She sticks the needles in the ball of wool and wraps them in what looks like the bottom half of a small jumper. She gives me a sideways glance. I hope she’s not expecting me to tell her my medical history.

  ‘Has your tumour got a name?’ She points at me with the needles sticking out of the ball of wool.

  ‘No.’

  ‘But what would you call him? Or her?’

  ‘I’ve never thought about it,’ I reply, giving the subject the benefit of a second thought. The thing with names is that you tend to associate them with someone you like or dislike with the same name. For me it’s even worse. I hated Mr Jason, the teacher in my third and fourth year. He didn’t bully or abuse me physically, but he managed to make me feel like nothing, a waste of space, by making my mistakes in maths public, and the whole class laughed. It wasn’t because I couldn’t do maths. Billy and Walter made more mistakes. For some reason, Mr Jason had decided that he didn’t like me.

  I’m not sure what came first when I met DI Guthrie, whether I disliked him as soon as we met, or when I found out that his first name is Jason.

  ‘There they are.’ About to put her needles into her bag, she points, making it look as if she’s thinking of sticking them into Mr Cole. He has emerged from one of the side rooms, followed by a smiling trio of young nurses.

  ‘Andy Tregunna.’ I'm not sure whether it’s a good sign that he doesn’t need to check his list of appointments to know I’m next.

  ‘Good luck,’ the woman whispers and I follow Mr Cole and his gang into an examination room that has a framed picture of a snow scene of Bodmin Moor.

  ‘I’m sorry about the extra wait, Mr Tregunna,’ Mr Cole says, shaking my hand as he studies the top sheet in my rapidly growing file. As two of the nurses leave, the third stays, her legs loosely crossed, leaning with her back against the door as if she expects me to make a run for it.

  ‘How are you feeling, Mr Tregunna?’

  He examines my stomach and his questions come in a rush, just a bit slower than the woman’s knitting needles. I answer and he makes notes, nodding, frowning, every so often looking up to scrutinise my face to see if I’m telling the truth. I’d like to bring up a particular issue about a physical problem but find it too embarrassing to raise in the presence of the nurse. She’s too young.

  As if he can read my thoughts, he asks casually, ‘You’re not married, Mr Tregunna. Do you have a girlfriend?’

  ‘Ehm … not really.’

  ‘Are you having sex with anyone?’

  I stare at him in shock and disbelief. He’s still making notes, waiting perhaps, or giving me the opportunity to recover and formulate an answer. The young nurse smiles encouragingly. I can’t say anything.

  ‘Not yet?’ He looks up and I manage to stumble, ‘No.’

  ‘Do you worry about that?’

  ‘A bit. Yes.’

  ‘Hm. It is one of the side-effects of the kind of operation you had,’ he nods. ‘But it is still early days. I can’t make promises either way, I’m afraid.’

  ‘I understand.’ I suddenly feel very young and even more awkward. In my job I’m able to interrogate criminals in a tough, unfeeling manner, tough enough to put the fear into them to make them feel insignificant. In here, with the man who had my life in his hands, sticking a knife in my flesh, I’m on the brink of tears. At least the young nurse has the sensitivity to look down at her hands and study her fingernails. They are varnished a pale, orangey pink.

  ‘You can try Viagra.’ He doesn’t see the expression on my face. Retrieving a small notebook from his breast pocket, he scribbles something on the top page and tears it off before I can muster an answer.

  ‘I … Thank you.’

  He smiles, looks straight into my eyes as if he can see my soul.

  ‘You can try it if you want. It’s up to you.’

  When he hands me a piece of paper to make my next appointment, blood tests and new scans, the prescription is on top of it.

  26

  Penrose was given the task of finding Hugo Holmes’s wife, whom Harold Price had named Bee. She spent several hours on the phone and at her computer, getting fed up as she didn’t seem to be making much progress. However, the fact that her colleagues were reaching dead ends with their tasks, made her all the more determined to press on. Eventually she found the date of Hugo Homes’s marriage to Millicent Robson. After their divorce, which was filed by Hugo, Millicent started using her own name again and it didn’t take Penrose long to track down her address.

  Tired but contented with her results, Penrose made the phone call. A woman answered. Snapped aggressively as soon as Penrose mentioned Hugo’s name. Would she know the whereabouts of Hugo Holmes? If anyone knew, who wouldn’t be more entitled to know than her? The bastard had walked out on her, left her with two young kids crying for days and, on top of that, took some of her belongings with him.

  ‘Does this mean that you don’t know his address?’ Penrose interrupted the rant carefully.

  ‘That’s what I said, didn’t I? Why? What’s up?’

  ‘Ehm … I’m sorry but I’ll have to inform you that he is dead.’

  ‘Dead? What do you mean by that?’

  ‘Dead as in … no longer alive,’ Penrose replied curtly, expecting the other woman to start crying her eyes out.

  Instead, Millicent Robson laughed.

  ‘Well, I’m not sorry to hear that!’ she announced happily and then hung up on Penrose.

  It took half a dozen attempts on the phone to establish from Mrs Robson that she didn’t have a clue where Hugo had been since he walked out on her. If she had, she would certainly have made sure that she’d got her belongings back.


  Penrose still sounds tired and frustrated when she repeats the phone calls and I can sense her growing annoyance, and, more importantly, the reason why she is telling me all this, and not Maloney. My rather reluctant suggestion to go and see Mrs Robson personally, and that I would be willing to accompany her if she so wishes, is subsequently brushed off with a statement that I would do a better job of extracting information from Millicent Robson about her estranged husband on my own than the whole police force would. When Penrose is really angry, she tends to exaggerate.

  I have just driven away from Treliske, a foul taste in my mouth and bitter with frustration. My appointment card and the prescription for the pharmacy are on the passenger seat. I have opened the window in the hope that they will get blown away, but they land on the floor and almost cause me to drive into the back of someone else’s car when I pick them up.

  Realising that I had set my hopes on the visit to Mr Cole, I am now more or less faced with the reality that I will have to accept the dysfunctional problem I’ve got. Mr Cole may think that it’s a minor issue when you compare it to a fatal condition, but I beg to differ. Subsequently, I again find that I need something to cling to, which, as usual, is work. So, with mixed feelings, I circle the whole of the next roundabout and drive back in the opposite direction.

  Tregony, I find as the information pops up on my mobile when I look up the address on the map, is a small town with a history that goes back centuries. These days, the river is silted up, but, amazingly, it was once a busy port of which I find no evidence when I enter the main street and pass an unusual clock tower. The address brings me to the outskirts, where modern bungalows are scattered along the road. Millicent Robson lives in an uninspiring bungalow. Large white-framed windows overlook a tiled garden with a sole palm tree half hidden behind a wooden fence and some dilapidated sheds that could even be old garages.

  I park behind one of the old sheds and walk to the square-shaped porch, which has the same white net curtains as the other windows. The door is open. Shelves covered with adhesive plastic material, white with tiny daffodils and daisies, are stacked with rows of shoes and boots. I have never seen a porch so neat and tidy.

  The bell may be ringing somewhere in the bungalow when I press the polished brass button, but I can’t hear it. Someone inside must have heard it because the front door is opened by a man in his early thirties, wearing navy blue shorts and a matching pair of original Crocs. A beige Weirdfish cardigan hangs open over a white vest and he has one arm in a sling of pink foam rubber. According to the expression on his thin face, it must be as uncomfortable as it looks.

  Retrieving my warrant card, I offer a reassuring smile, aware of what is usually the first thought when police appear on someone’s doorstep unannounced and uninvited.

  ‘Is it possible to speak with Millicent Robson?’

  Grey eyes with golden specks blink rapidly and despite my friendly tone I see panic rise in them. ‘Millicent. Is she … May I ask …?’

  ‘Don’t worry, Mr Robson, I’m a police officer investigating the…’

  He interrupts with a relieved but rather shy smile. ‘I’m Jonathan Casey. Although Bee seems to prefer calling me Jonno.’

  ‘And Bee is ….?’

  ‘Sorry. That’s Millicent, but she hates that name. She thinks it’s too soft and girly. She prefers to be called Bee.’

  ‘As long as she doesn’t sting.’

  ‘She wouldn’t be alive still, would she?’ he replies rhetorically.

  ‘Unless she’s disguised as a wasp.’

  He’s not amused. I can hear children laughing in the background. The high tinny voices of cartoons. Pressing his lips together, he contemplates how to respond. Clearly, he is not inviting me in.

  ‘But Millicent does live here?’

  ‘Yes.’ He hasn't fully opened the door. ‘She still uses her own name for her business. But … is she in some sort of … trouble?’

  I smile. ‘Not that I am aware of, Mr Casey. Is it possible to speak with her? I was hoping she could help me with an investigation. It’s about …’ I stop abruptly with the appearance of a young child. Half hiding behind Casey’s skinny, hairy legs the boy has a grin on his face as though we’re all involved in a game of hide-and-seek.

  ‘You see, Deacon?’ Casey says gently, wiping the curly fringe from the child’s forehead. ‘It isn’t Mrs Morley at all.’

  ‘Or Mr Morley,’ I say helpfully.

  ‘Mr Morley is dead.’ This statement is said as if the boy knows there is no need to be scared by the mention of a dead person. Mrs Morley, in contrast, seems to be more of a danger to his well-being. He can’t be much older that six or seven, yet he has broken through my vague attempt of reassurance like it was a thin layer of ice.

  ‘I’m sorry.’ I feel like getting back into my car and starting all over.

  ‘Deacon, go back in the house.’

  The boy doesn’t move. ‘If you’re not Mrs Morley, why are you here?’

  ‘He’s here to speak to your mother.’

  ‘Mum’s at work.’

  ‘Deacon!’

  ‘Okay.’ He disappears as suddenly as he had emerged from the rather dark hallway. I hear a door click in its lock, but I can’t make out if he has gone to another room or is hiding curiously in the shadows.

  ‘Sorry about that, Mr Tregunna. Deacon was right though. Bee’s at work.’

  ‘Where does she work?’

  ‘Truro. She’s an accountant.’ He offers a wry smile. ‘I’m the house man. I look after the house and the kids.’ He motions with his thumb over one shoulder. ‘Deacon and Charlotte. Seven and ten. Charlotte is with a friend.’

  ‘And you are … if you don’t mind me asking … the father?’

  ‘No. Bee’s divorced. We’ve only been together for a year.’ Pulling his sleeve in the arm with a sling, he glances at his watch. ‘She’ll be home in thirty minutes. You can come back later or I can make you a cup of coffee.’

  ‘Coffee would be lovely.’

  I follow him into a kitchen that looks more like a showroom. Modern. Black against white, handles in chrome. Even the cat has matching colours. Black, with a white foot as if someone, trying to be funny, has dipped it in paint. The only sign that it’s a working kitchen is a saucepan on the hob. Its glass lid dances gently on wisps of steaming water. Casey busies himself with an expensive-looking coffee machine before switching off the ring of the hob. He stares at the contents of the pan intently, as though he’s watching the water cool.

  ‘Sorry,’ he says, not looking at me. ‘She likes her carrots soft and soggy. Mash.’ The expression on his face puts me off asking who he means by ‘she’.

  ‘You broke your arm?’ I ask casually, gazing out of the window at a narrow garden with mostly green shrubs.

  ‘Yes. Three more weeks in plaster.’ Lifting the saucepan with his right hand, he offers a wry smile. ‘Very annoying because I’m left-handed.’

  The coffee machine comes to life, hot water hissing and fresh coffee beans grinding. He gets two white cups and saucers and making sure he finds the exact spot to place the cups on the machine, he presses a button . The smell of strong fresh coffee replaces the sweet smell of the carrots.

  ‘How did it happen?’ I ask, making conversation. He seems a very quiet man and the silences between us are uneasy. Every so often we hear laughter in the living room, bouts of music or a tinny voice from the TV. Casey lifts his head, half hoping to escape from the kitchen and join in. Every now and then he glances at a clock above the fridge and frowns. He is uncomfortable, perhaps already regretting having invited me in, since I accepted the offer. However, the coffee smells good.

  He hasn’t replied to my question and I press on when he places our coffees on the table. Mine is black, his is milky and weak.

  ‘Your arm. Was it an accident?’

  ‘How can one break an arm when it is not an accident?’

  ‘Surgery?’

  ‘No. It was rather silly.' A sm
ile. He sits down. The cat jumps on his lap. He lifts it up with one hand and puts it on the floor, stroking its head. Gentle. Caring. 'I washed the floor in the hallway and slipped on it while it was still wet. I landed half on the stairs and my arm got caught between the banisters.’

  ‘Nasty one.’

  ‘I was lucky not to break my leg. That would have been much worse. With a house that needs looking after. And the children.’

  He opens the oven door and waves at a cloud of hot air, pulling out a baking tray with overheated oil. Then a quick glance at the clock. A frown, deepening. Worry.

  ‘Something wrong?’

  ‘No. Well, the oil has got too hot. I guess I’ll have to start again.’

  I almost feel sorry for him, struggling with pans and plates with one hand while the other is arm clearly still hurting. I pick up my coffee but it’s too hot, otherwise I could suggest I’ll come back later. Perhaps it might be a better idea anyway to come back when the children have gone to bed. However Millicent Robson’s reaction to Penrose when she was informed Hugo’s death will still leave her in shock, especially when she hears the details. Suddenly, I realise that I don’t even know whether her children were fathered by Hugo or anyone else. I consider sending Penrose a text, but Casey’s question interrupts me.

  ‘May I ask what it is that you would like to discuss with Bee, inspector?’ He lowers himself onto the seat opposite me as though he’s making up his mind that he won’t do anything else before he knows exactly what is going on.

  ‘Does the name Hugo Holmes ring a bell?’

  ‘Should it?’

  ‘Perhaps, yes.’ I can’t take back the question. ‘I am informed that he was your wife’s husband.’

  His face is pale suddenly. ‘What was his name again?’

  But before I can answer, a mobile phone rings. Taking it out of his trouser pocket, he replies without even looking at the display. ‘Yes Bee?’ Apparently he has one of those sophisticated mobiles on which you can set a distinct ring tone for each person.

  Turning his back to me, he listens, his face tight with concentration. Every so often he mutters something that seems to sound like some sort of reassurance or confirmation.