What every body is saying: DI Tregunna Cornish Crime novel

by Carla Vermaat

  The sky is pale blue and watery orange, deepening in colour as the sun rises over the hills. The old barn now looks as though someone started to build a house but gave up and ended up using it as with a shelter for sheep. I can see some in the nearby field, behind an old weathered dry stone wall overgrown with mosses and lichen. I retrace the route we came here last night, through the tall grass which is swaying in the wind. Below the cliffs, foaming white waves crash onto the steep rocks of a headland and my confidence grows when I recognise Trevose Lighthouse in the distance.

  A fishing vessel passes in the bay. I can almost work out the shape of the fisherman in his cabin and for a moment I imagine it’s Clem Trebilcock, returning to Newquay harbour after a night out fishing. I hope he’s caught enough to have a proper meal on his table, as I know how difficult the life of fishermen has become nowadays, with environmental restrictions and ever-tightening regulations from Brussels.

  The road is a single track alongside a dry stone wall overgrown with red and white Valerian and blackberry brambles, I pick a few, tasting their sweetness mixed with a touch of salty air. Weeds are forcing their way through jagged cracks in the crumbling tarmac and grass grows in the middle telling me how little traffic uses it. Which I find rather worrying.

  I hear the sound of a car engine in the distance, imagining it coming closer. Mixed feeling make my mouth dry. Alarm. Fear. Comfort. Hope. I turn round, scanning my options. No shelter, nowhere to hide in case the approaching car means that my abductors are returning. I have no doubt that they will. Sooner or later. Another turn on my heels. An open field to my right ends at the cliff edges. To my left is a high section of wall overgrown with unforgiving branches of brambles. Too high to climb over without the proper use of my hands, the wall is not an option. Beyond is another field, sheep slowly waking up, staring at me with dull eyes. A track runs along the wall, both ends disappearing from sight round the bends.

  The landscape is slowly emerging with the dawn and early morning dew. The sun is throwing long shadows over the ground. The sound of the car engine grows louder. I can't work out where it’s coming from. Unless it’s just my imagination, fuelled by fear. When young children get lost on long stretches of busy beaches, the best chance to find them quickly is to walk with the sun at your back rather than in your eyes. Reasoning that my abductors will instinctively do the same, I start walking away from the sun. People running usually attract more attention. I walk. Whether you walk slowly or run fast as if you want to win the London marathon, your arms swing automatically to keep the right balance. My arms don't swing with both my hands still tied up. Aware that my silhouette is etched against the sky I feel myself moving awkwardly, slightly sideways, correcting after each fourth step in a vain attempt to look like a casual walker. The car is still on the move but the wind makes it difficult to establish where the sound is coming from. After a while, I hear voices. A man. Not a nasal voice, or the other one, but that doesn’t mean it’s any less dangerous.

  I duck behind the wall. Think. Wait. Relax. Best to check before I walk straight into the unwelcome open arms of my abductors. After the awfully long, cold and uncomfortable night, I feel I deserve some luck. I move forward, keeping my head down. Every once in a while, I can see slate rooftops and chimneys. I stop at a rusty metal gate which is closed with blue fisherman’s rope. A sign on one of the tall stones on either side of the gate says ‘Tregrells Holiday Cottages.’

  However, the location won’t be that helpful if it comes to a quick escape, I lower myself onto the grass as if I’m having a break from my walk. I peer round the corner. A farm has recently been renovated and converted into a collection of holiday cottages, the old cobblestones in the courtyard are glistening with dew in the early morning sunshine. There are two cars parked in the courtyard. One is a small red Vauxhall Corsa, the other a black people carrier.

  I can’t remember the colour or make of the car had I was abducted in, but if it is Carter behind all of this, he has several vehicles to choose from. Although he doesn't strike me as a man who would own a bright red car.

  Then suddenly a small dog comes running towards the gate as if it has set his hopes on playing with me.

  ‘Dusty!’

  Not a man’s voice. A child’s. A little girl appears in my sight. She is almost as startled as I am. Abductors don’t tend to have a family. Or children.

  ‘Dusty?’ Her thin voice trembles, along with her bottom lip.

  I stiffen. Probably, alarmed by her tone a man emerges from behind a wooden lean-to housing a coal box, a wood pile and an assortment of bicycles. Dressed in clean, new-looking jeans and a light blue shirt buttoned to the top he looks like he’s trying to dress casually on holiday but he’s missed the point completely.

  The girl looks up at him, points towards me and asks, ‘Daddy?’

  ‘Yes, princess?’ His voice has the authority of a man used to being the chairman in the boardroom. Bold. Ruthless. Making decisions in split seconds.

  ‘Sorry to bother you, sir,’ I say quickly, before he can form a bad opinion of me. ‘I need your help.’

  He looks round, searching for something, someone. His right-hand man. His loyal secretary. Or any other hired help.

  ‘I’ve been kidnapped. And robbed.’

  The statement is lost on him. I can’t blame him. I wouldn’t believe me either.

  ‘They are after me.’

  ‘I can’t see anyone.’ Disgust and disbelief in his tone. A protective hand lands on his daughter's shoulder. To him, I must look completely at odds with the norm of his neat suburban life. Unshaven. Dirty. Smelly.

  ‘It’s true, sir. I’m not making this up.’

  He hesitates, uncertain how to deal with this unexpected situation, looking around for something to give him cause to believe me but the only track to the cottages is deserted on both sides. There is nothing that would support my claims.

  ‘Please leave us alone.’

  ‘They will come looking for me. I escaped.’ I get up, holding my cuffed wrists towards him, hoping to use his still half-shocked state as a lever. All I need is to use his bathroom and his phone. ‘They will come back for me.’

  His focus is still on my face. ‘Daphne, go inside the house.’ His composure regained, his hand squeezes the girl’s shoulder comfortingly.

  ‘But daddy …’

  ‘Do as I say, Daphne.’

  She looks at me seriously, as if she’s trying to tell me that she will come after me if I dare to hurt her father.

  ‘Go to your mother.’

  Obediently, she disappears between the two cars, then into the nearest holiday cottage, emerging at the window with her nose pressed onto the glass, an adult version of her standing behind her.

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘I’m a policeman.’

  His brows rise. I realise that it’s the most unlikely of possible answers he was expecting to his question. ‘Where’s your uniform?’

  ‘I normally don’t wear one.’ It feels like I’m digging my own grave.

  ‘Your badge?’ His hands are now in his trouser pocket. I suspect he’s holding his mobile phone in one hand. Ready to use.

  ‘They’ve taken everything from my pockets.’

  ‘Including your ID card?’

  ‘And my wallet. My mobile phone.’

  ‘Very convenient,’ he says suspiciously, but his face is expressionless, his bright blue eyes alerted as if he’s trying to read a business opponent's mind and true intentions in a big business deal.

  ‘Not convenient, it’s bloody annoying. I need to go to the hospital in Truro and I have no means of …’ I’m digging deeper. Start again. I can’t undo the damage I’ve done. ‘They left me in that barn last night. Look. I’m tied up. They …’ I stop as I hear a car approaching. ‘That’s probably them. They must have found out that I escaped.’

  Once more, I hold up my hands and this time he allows his eyes to go down. For some reason, my tied hands are reassuring for him.
A flicker of understanding appears in his eyes, but he is not moving. ‘Where were you held?’

  ‘I don’t know. Beyond the wall.’ I gesture vaguely with my head. ‘In a grey brick building. No doors or windows. Bloody cold.’

  He nods. At least he knows the building. Understands the remoteness of the draughty place.

  ‘If they find me here …’

  ‘Will they kill you?’ he sounds like he’s ordering a pizza from Domino’s.

  ‘I don’t think so. If that was the plan, they would have killed me last night.’ I hesitate. ‘But I really have to go to the hospital. A friend of mine is in a coma and today’s her birthday and I …’

  One hand emerges from his pocket, as I assumed, holding a mobile. He is telling me he is not a push- over. Looking down at his feet in clean white trainers with an expensive logo on them, he thrusts his head forward as if he is battling against the wind. ‘Then why did they … kidnap you?’

  ‘I don’t even know who they are.’ I gaze over my shoulder. The silver roof of a car appears where the wall is a bit lower. It won’t take long before they will reach the old barn. Run inside. Scan the empty rooms, search everywhere . Jump back in the car. Drive. And see me standing at the gate, pleading desperately for help.

  ‘So you claim you are a police officer and you have been kidnapped and robbed by two men you have never seen in your life. Might there be some motive for their actions?’

  ‘Not that I’m aware off.’

  ‘Okay.’ He tut-tuts his lips. He too is now aware of the car approaching slowly on the uneven track. ‘You think it is them?’

  ‘It was a silver car I was taken in.’ It’s a lie. At least I believe it is.

  ‘Okay.’ Finally he has made up his mind. I am not a serious threat to his safety. I am still handcuffed. With his thumb, he motions over his shoulder. I can see a shape moving behind the net curtains of the small quartered windows.

  He steps back and opens the gate as if he’s inviting in a welcome guest, not bothering to put the blue rope back to secure it. I follow him as fast as I dare feeling exposed to anyone in the open courtyard, expecting my two abductors to emerge at any moment. However, he now seems willing to help me, I can’t afford for him to get into the position of discussing the situation with the men in case they make him believe a story about an escaped prisoner, or a psychopath looking for his next victim, convincing him that it would be in everyone's best interests to take me off the premises before I can cause any harm to him or his family. His lovely little princess.

  ‘What is your name?’ As if on cue, the dog comes forward, sniffing at my feet with curiosity rather than suspicion. Gazing up at me with lively brown eyes for a few seconds, the dog turns to find a sheltered spot in the sun and lowers himself on his chosen spot.

  ‘Tregunna. Andy Tregunna.’

  ‘James Banks.’ To my surprise, he offers me a hand. Realising mine are tied together, his face turns pink. ‘However odd your story is, I do believe you.’

  I take a deep breath, unsure if he is trying to help or laying a trap. Perhaps he knows my abductors, perhaps he is part of the whole plan and is inwardly laughing at my attempted escape, then running straight back into trouble again. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Now,’ he says, as though it is only just occurring to him. ‘What can I do for you, Mr Tregunna?’

  I glance over my shoulder. The car is uncomfortably close. ‘First, I need to get home.’

  ‘Ehm. Yes. Of course.’

  He has almost reached the door and I am scared suddenly that he will lock himself and his family inside the cottage and call for help. The police, maybe. Uniformed officers who won’t know me will arrive sooner or later to take me away and lock me up on the grounds of trespassing. Or worse. I doubt he is a liar, but if necessary to protect his family he would exaggerate the situation.

  ‘And … is it possible to use your bathroom?’ Stopping mid-step, his hand reaching for the door handle, he looks at my crumpled trousers, my unshaven dirty face, my unkempt hair, and the smudges of blood on my hand where I hit the rough concrete blocks when I tried to rip open the cable tie. I am well aware of my appearance and I can understand his concern but I really need to have a proper look at my stoma bag. Check the damage, see if I can empty it and stick it back onto my skin. It won’t be an ideal solution, but it would be better than nothing. From now on, I promise myself, I will make sure I carry an emergency kit with me all the time. It won’t be that difficult to store a spare stoma bag and a small adhesive's bottle in a bumbag like a tourist hiding all their valuables from pickpockets.

  ‘Wait here please.’ The silver car has reached the gate. It stops and, with a sinking feeling, I hear a car door opening. James Banks may be a friendly and helpful soul, but he doesn’t understand how scared I am that the men could persuade him that the best option is that they take me away. Perhaps they will even come up with a story about a joke that got out of hand, a training exercise which made me too disorientated to find my way back to base camp.

  My face must be an open book to him. ‘Okay. I think you’d better come in.’ He motions over his shoulder to follow him. ‘No tricks.’

  I step inside. The cottage has plain white walls and a varnished wooden floor. A kitchen is separated from the living area by two large beams in the middle holding up the low ceiling. A young woman is standing at the sink in front of the window. Her blonde hair a mess, face pale and brown eyes sleepy. She’s dressed in a fluffy white bathrobe with the logo of a hotel on the chest pocket. Her feet are bare, nails painted bright red.

  ‘James, what’s happening?’ She sounds husky, as if she’d just been making love. ‘Daphne said …’ She stops when I come into her vision, raising her eyebrows, and her small nose covered with freckles.

  He smiles quickly, putting his arms around her and resting his chin on her head for a moment. ‘This is Andy Tregunna. He’s asked for our help,’ he says, his mouth making in a wry smile.

  Her face is one big question mark. ‘Is everything alright?’

  ‘Of course, my darling.’ His hand slides down her back, stopping briefly at her bottom. ‘He would like to use our bathroom and make a phone call to someone to pick him up.’

  36

  A few years back, I used to have everyone’s phone numbers stored in my head but since mobile phones have become so universal, the ability to remember contact numbers is now redundant. At least for me. I can’t even remember Lauren’s number. Or Guthrie’s.

  What I do remember is my parent’s landline. I can’t possibly bother them with this. They’ll be sick with worry about what’s happened, what could have happened and even more so what will happen to me next.

  Oddly, the other phone number I do remember is that of my neighbour, Mr Curtis. It’s not even an easy number to remember, but somehow the rhythm of it has got stuck in my mind.

  ‘Hello?’ A deep voice grunts at me. He sounds sleepy and suspicious.

  ‘It’s Tregunna. Your neighbour.’

  He’s so silent for so long that I think he’s hung up on me.

  ‘Well, you surprise me, Tregunna.’ His chuckle echoes spookily as if he’s standing in the centre of a big empty sports hall.

  ‘How do you mean?’

  Another chuckle, this time with a hint of embarrassment. ‘You wouldn’t speak to me when I called you last night.’

  I must have missed something. ‘When was that?’

  James is waiting. Frowning. I promised him I would call for someone to collect me, now he seems unhappy as it occurs to him that he might get stuck with me after all. His nostrils flare and his eyes only drift off briefly when his wife comes down from upstairs. She’s combed her hair and applied some light make-up. Not too much, only enough to give her self-confidence. She’s now dressed in white trousers and a loose, navy blue blouse, printed with white dots. Her curly hair is pulled back and gathered on top of her head with a elasticated band, looking like she has a fountain on her head.

  ‘
Last night of course,’ Curtis says in my ear, enough irony in his voice to alert me. I can’t remember he’s ever called me before, so why would he have tried last night, when he could have seen the lights in my flat were off and he would have known that I was out.

  ‘Everything all right?’ James Banks’ wife asks without looking in my direction.

  ‘Sure.’ Her husband sounds as unconvincing as the expression on his face suggests. ‘Where is Daphne?’

  She shrugs as if the question is too ridiculous to answer seriously. ‘In the courtyard.’

  He stiffens. ‘Alone?’

  ‘Of course not. Julie is there to look after little Ash. I asked her to keep an eye on Daphne as well.’

  ‘What time was that, Mr Curtis?’

  James is moving awkwardly, clearly wondering why I don’t ask Curtis to come and fetch me. He has a point. Pointedly, he ducks to look out of the window, as if to remind me that the silver car is still there.

  ‘Half nine. Ten. Eleven. Midnight?’

  Something is very wrong here. I must have missed something. My head isn’t working as well as it should do, as though my senses aren’t connected to my brain any more.

  ‘Why did you call me, Mr Curtis?’

  He chuckles incredulously. ‘Because of the noise, of course. That Chloe girl, yes, she can turn the music up, or that other chap, that new guy, isn’t his name Mark? Anyway, I hadn’t expected it from you and …’

  ‘What noise?’ I interrupt, staring at James who is clearly contemplating grabbing his phone from my hand.

  In the kitchen area, his wife gasps, her body freezing, a jar of coffee granules in her hand. Beside her the kettle is coming to the boil.

  ‘What’s wrong, darling?’

  ‘A man is coming through the gate.’

  ‘Your Mr Curtis?’ James asks hopefully.

  ‘No.’ I’m half hidden behind the net curtains. He isn’t. We follow his wife’s gaze.

  ‘Are they police?’

  ‘No. I am police.’

  Once more he frowns, doubt filling his mind. In fairness, I don’t look like a policeman at all.