‘As I said, I didn’t expect to meet you here, Andy.’ With a meaningful smile, she moves from between her guards and sits on the chair next to mine. The question, repeated, suddenly strikes me as odd.
‘What makes you say that, Mrs Trewoon?’
‘You seem to avoid me. You refuse to see me.’
‘I don’t see the point in seeing you.’
Lauren is slicing cake and serving portions on paper plates, and napkins printed with red balloons.
‘I have sent in a request to discuss my case.’
‘You are waiting for your trail, Mrs Trewoon. It’s up to the jury now.’
‘What if I have new information?’
‘Speak to your lawyer.’ I want to turn to the person who sits down next to me, but she persists.
‘You know you are the only one I wish to speak to. My lawyer is a waste of space. She doesn’t believe in my innocence. She won’t do anything to help me get out of that prison.’
‘She’s a professional lawyer, Mrs Trewoon. She will do what she is supposed to do. Defend you. She’s not meant to like or dislike you. Whether she has an opinion about you or your case, or not, that won’t make any difference to your case.’
She lifts her eyebrows in an almost comical way. ‘I didn’t do it, inspector.’
I shrug, relieved to be able to turn away from her when Lauren touches my arm. ‘There isn’t much cake left, Andy. Shall I go to the shop and see if I can get some more?’
It isn’t the cake. She wants to get out of here. ‘Good idea. I haven’t even had a piece yet.’
Dorothy’s eyes follow her as Lauren tosses her bag over her shoulder and leaves the room hurriedly with relief. I regret that I didn’t consider her feelings when I invited her to come with me. I should have been less selfish.
‘She’s lovely, inspector,’ Dorothy sneers.
Her hand grabs my arm. I can feel the pressure of her fingertips. Her nails. One of the guards moves. ‘Mrs Trewoon, please?’
With a disappointed smile, she pulls back. ‘Sorry,’ she says, not meaning it.
‘It’s okay.’ I move slightly away from her, trying to get involved in the conversation between Dr Elliott and Mr Curtis, the latter with multiple questions about Becca’s condition and her chances of recovery while the doctor tries to avoid giving direct answers.
‘It’s a sad story,’ Curtis says. If he is aware of the circumstances that led to Becca’s situation, it certainly wasn’t me who told him. Thinking of him using binoculars to spy on Carter’s men in the car, I’m inclined to believe he is fishing for information rather than making polite conversation.
‘Indeed.’ Elliott manages to get the attention of a nurse, Mirabelle, who has just walked in. He rises from his stool and I’m left with Dorothy on one side and an empty seat on the other. As much as he has proven to be a helpful neighbour, Mr Curtis is turning his back to me to chat with another nurse.
‘Are you two in a relationship?’ Dorothy asks.
‘Sorry?’
‘You and … the little redhead.’
‘Her name is Lauren.’
‘Are you?’
‘Mrs Trewoon, I do think it is none of your business.’
‘But it is, Andy. I care about you, you do know that, don’t you?’
‘Mrs Trewoon …’
She leans sideways, her cheek almost touching my shoulder. One of the guards shifts, alerted, so she sends him a flashing smile, acting innocent, and he leans back but keeps his eyes on her.
‘Please call me Dottie.’
Somehow I feel trapped. In the room, in the hospital, in her sight.
‘I don’t think …’ I start, not knowing what to say.
‘I’ll send another request for you to see me, Andy.’
‘Ah, Mr Tregunna! I knew I’d find you here. Eventually.’ A nurse appears in the doorway, a worried look on her face. ‘I’ve tried several times to call you, Mr Tregunna. It’s about Mr Grose.’ It’s Rosie. I remember her.
‘I’ve lost my mobile.’ I get up, stretching my back, unclenching my hands which I wasn’t even aware had been tightly clenched.
‘How inconvenient,’ Dorothy Trewoon chips in from behind my back. ‘I’m sure you’ll find it soon. Things don’t get lost. They just mislaid.’
Stolen more likely.
‘What’s up with Mr Grose?’
The nurse turns her head to suggest we go over to the far end of the room. More private. I’m glad to escape, albeit short-lived, from the close proximity of Dorothy Trewoon.
‘He isn’t getting better,’ Rosie says, lowering her voice. ‘He’s asked for you. He seems … restless and uneasy about something, but we don’t understand what he is talking about.’
‘His wife?’
‘Something about ringing someone, we think. Anyway, I know you didn’t intend to, not today, but is there a chance you can pop in to see him? He’s asleep most of the time, but you can wake him up. It will only be for a few minutes.’
‘Of course I can.’ I look round. The nurses are chatting and laughing. The guards look stoic, interested only in the prospect of Lauren returning with more cakes. Dorothy has managed to attract the attention of Dr Elliott. Although I dread the idea of her discussing Becca’s condition with the doctor, I don’t want to get involved in the conversation and get trapped with her again. Somehow that woman is dangerously intoxicating. She’s like a fix of drugs taunting an addict desperately trying to become clean.
I follow Rosie through quiet corridors, past an empty desk where the phone has no doubt been forwarded to someone’s pager, someone who has sneaked away for two minutes and is now attending the birthday party. I can’t blame them. All we can hear is the sharp click-clack of our heels as Rosie quickly explains that Mr Grose has had several minor strokes and his condition has deteriorated.
‘He doesn’t seem to care any more,’ she adds, halting at a closed door. ‘Moving him may very well cause his death.’
Her gaze is serious and I keep to myself what I’m thinking so as not to shock her. What is the point in keeping Mr Grose alive? He won’t recover. He won’t be able to return to his home. He won’t even want to.
She opens the door, whispering, ‘I’ll leave you to it.’
The curtains are drawn and there is a light above Mr Grose’s head. A single card wishing him to get well soon is stuck on the otherwise empty board. I recognise my mother’s handwriting. A vase, a discarded glass jar that once held a healthy juice of the kind you buy when you visit someone in hospital, is empty on the window sill. His brown check slippers are under his bed but I doubt if he will ever use them again.
His mouth is half open. His breathing is heavy. Difficult. Every so often, he seems to stop breathing, then there is a deep sigh and his eyes open, staring, wondering perhaps where or who he is, closing them again as he can’t find the answer.
‘Mr Grose.’ I grab a chair and sit down, placing my hand on his arm to make him aware of me but not to startle him. ‘Mr Grose, are you awake? It’s Andy Tregunna.’
There is a movement at the door. Perhaps Rosie wants to make sure that I am OK to be left alone with her patient before she heads back for the cake. Lauren should be back with new supplies by now.
‘You wished to see me, Mr Grose.’
There is no response. He is asleep and there seems no point in staying to wait for him to wake up which could be any time. Yet, I stay and bend over close to his head. And I talk about a boy who once sat next to him and listened to his stories with a mixture of curiosity and horror. I tell him about my nightmares. There is a faint movement in his face when I add that I laughed about the nightmares later. One eye opens and I imagine I see the same sparkle in it from all those years ago. A rumble like a deep earthquake comes from his throat. One corner of his mouth twists into a faint smile.
‘It’s Andy.’
Another rumble, followed by what sounds like the start of a bout of desperate coughing.
‘No, don’t
speak, please.’ I can sense his unease. He wants to say something but physically can’t. He is too weak.
‘I did everything you asked. I went into the kitchen. I cleared everything away. No one will find it. It’s all gone Mr Grose, you needn’t worry about it any more.’
His hand reaches out with surprising strength. He grabs my fingers with a weak, trembling and cold hand. He is trying to tell me something. A mixture of faint coughing and whispering. Single words. I don’t understand any of it.
‘I took the wedding ring and I put it where you wanted it. Everything is all right.’
‘Oh. Aaah.’
His hand drops and his face relaxes. He is asleep again, peaceful, and somehow I am confident that I have told him what he wanted to hear. I get up and look at my mother’s card above his head, and I say an inaudible farewell to him. I know I won’t see him alive again.
38
I use Lauren’s mobile to call the station. Disgruntled, I tell the desk-officer that I’ve lost my phone and I’ll let him know as soon as I have a new one. He smirks, finding it funny rather than sharing my annoyance. Sponge-Rob would have been more understanding than this new recruit.
At my request, he connects me somewhat grudgingly to Penrose.
‘Sir, I’ve been trying to contact you,’ she says before I can get a word in.
There must be a long list of missed calls and messages in my phone.
‘Well.’ She lowers her voice. ‘Guthrie is not happy with you.’
‘I’ve already spoken to Maloney. He said DI Corbett has been in contact.’
‘Yes. She is very helpful.’ She hesitates. ‘Sir, are you expecting a bomb to go off?’
‘A what?’
She chuckles. ‘A bomb.’
Suspicion. Paranoia. A bomb. The bomb threat springs to mind. It could never happen here, not in Cornwall, not on my doorstep. Yet, I can’t dismiss the feeling that I am slowly being trapped into something, slowly pulled towards a situation I won’t be able to handle any more.
‘Why do you ask, Jennette?’ Perhaps last week’s bomb threat in St Austell has had more impact on her than I expected. After all, initially the threat was taken seriously and officers must have had serious fears that something major was about to happen.
‘We have a parcel here at the station, sir. It was delivered at about noon.’ She pauses for dramatic effect. ‘It's for you. It says it’s private.’
‘And you think it may be a bomb?’
‘Well, I hope not sir, because it’s in front of me on my desk.’
‘How big?’
‘About half the size of a shoebox.’
‘Not big enough for a bomb, Jennette.’
‘Depends what that bomb is made of, Maloney said.’
‘Oh. Clearly, you are not treating it suspiciously.’
‘It’s been on my desk for hours.’
‘You’ve taken a big risk on behalf of me.’
‘Sure have!’ The whole issue seems to amuse her. ‘I think I know what it is, sir.’
‘Have you opened it?’
‘Of course not! Such a breach of privacy would cost me my job.’ She chuckles. ‘But I am a good detective, sir.’
‘You are, Jennette.’
I hear her rummaging through papers on her desk. ‘Have you lost your phone, sir?’
‘How do you know?’
‘I said I am a good detective.’
‘Indeed, Jennette, I was just calling you to let you know that I’ve lost it. Along with some other items.’
‘Hm. I’ve rung your number because I wanted to ask you something, sir. It took me a while before I realised that the phone I thought I heard ringing on someone else’s desk wasn’t a distant phone. Actually, it is your phone, sir. In the parcel.’
The events of the last few days have been so extraordinary that I am hardly surprised.
‘Would you mind opening that parcel, please Jennette? And tell me what else is in it?’
‘Probably only your phone, sir. Someone who wanted to remain anonymous must have found it and didn’t want the hassle of reporting it found.’
‘Please, Jennette.’
‘Did you just say that you lost some other items?’
‘I did.’
‘I’ll have to put you down for a minute, sir. The parcel is wrapped in tape.’
‘I’ll wait.’
‘Sir.’ She’s back three minutes later. Perplexed.
‘It is your phone sir. Along with a set of keys. Your ID-card. Your watch. Your wallet with £40 in bank notes and some loose coins. Bankcards. A Tesco loyalty card. A pen engraved with your initials. And a birthday card.’
‘That’s good news, Jennette.’
It saves me a lot of hassle, especially with the more private items, but I don’t understand it.
‘Have you lost all these items, sir?’
‘Ehm … it was all in the pockets of my coat and I must have mislaid it.’
'Well, you’re lucky, sir.
‘I suppose there isn’t a note from the sender so that I can thank them for their honesty?’
‘No sir. And I’ve asked Sponge-Rob. He says it was delivered by two schoolgirls. Teenagers. You know Rob, he wants to know everything. He wouldn’t let those girls go before they answered his questions. I think they must have been pretty scared, anyway. Apparently, there was a woman who asked if they needed some money and promised to give them £10 each if they delivered the parcel to the desk at the police station.’
‘A woman?’
‘A very vague description, sir, sadly. The girls were rather nervous. One says it was a dark blonde woman in her thirties, the other thought she was at least ten years older, with dark hair and a mole beside her nose. The other girl hadn’t noticed the mole.’
‘Thanks, Jennette. Do we have the details of those girls?’
‘No. Sponge-Rob was called to the phone and his colleague didn’t see the point in asking for details.’
‘Thanks, Jennette. I’ll come in straight away.’
I disconnect and hand Lauren her phone. She’s heard my side of the conversation.
‘Don’t tell me. Your belongings have been returned.’
I nod, grinning. ‘It seems I don’t have to buy a new mobile after all. Or call the caretaker for a new lock.’
‘I’m not so sure about this,’ she says thoughtfully. Perhaps they copied your bank card. Or your keys. I think it would be wise to have a new lock on your door for starters.’
I nod, already having made up my mind to do exactly that.
‘Thanks for your company today, Lauren,’ I say, holding her hand. ‘If Becca has been aware of anything, she’d be pleased with the attention, the presents and the party atmosphere.’
‘Do you think she is aware of anything?’
‘I don’t know. Sometimes, I have the feeling she is awake. I talk to her, you know. Nothing important, just my daily routines. Sometimes, I think she is trying to tell me something, but I’m sure that is only in my imagination.’
‘I found you on Facebook,’ she says suddenly.
‘Did you?’
She smiles briefly. ‘I’ve sent you a friend request.’
‘I haven’t seen it yet.’
‘You have two friends.’
‘Two? I thought my only friend is Gerald Davey, which is debatable anyway.’
‘The other is a woman called Wendy Wilson.’
I grin, pleased by the look on her face. ‘I forgot about her, to be honest. Lauren, Wendy Wilson is …’ I pause, not really wanting to explain about ‘Alistair’ and his impact on her life, as it will undoubtedly end up with her asking me if I have a similar character nagging me. ‘She means nothing to me, Lauren, I will …’
‘It’s just something Dorothy said when you left the room for a while.’
‘What did Dorothy Trewoon say about me, Lauren?’
Her face goes red and she looks down, fingers fumbling with the top button of her shirt.
‘She said you are a dangerous man.’
‘And you believe her?’
‘No, but … she also said I should ask you where you were last night. And with whom.’
39
Siobhan Carter waits for me in a small room behind the entrance of Tregarrett school. She called me with panic in her voice, half in tears. I couldn’t work out what the problem was, but I could sense her despair.
‘I’ll bring you some tea,’ Gerald Davey says, casting a glance at Siobhan’s face.
I nod and take a seat opposite her. 'How can I help you, Siobhan?'
'It's Leanne. She’s ...' Her voice breaks in a sob.
'Is Leanne here, Siobhan? At school?'
'Yes. She was. I don’t know.’ She looks down at her hands and adds miserably, ‘We’ve fallen out.'
'Why? What’s wrong, Siobhan?’
'Leanne, she's ... she says she's going to find Barry.'
'Who is Barry?'
She hesitates. 'He is one of the guys ... we went to Plymouth with.'
'Her boyfriend?'
'Well, that's what she thinks.'
I sigh. I was right. They didn’t spend the night with a girl called Stacey. They were with friends, most likely the two young men behind them in the queue waiting for BarZz to open. 'How did you meet him? At school?'
'No We met in town. In Newquay. He ... I believe that he used to go to our school because he seemed to know Mr Davey.'
'What about the other guy?'
A flicker of surprise in her eyes. 'Ronald.' Her mouth tightens. 'He is a bit older than Barry. Not as good looking. Barry really is a looker. I could understand why Leanne was so keen on him, but I didn't like his ... manners. She said I was being arrogant, just like my parents, but it wasn't that. I just didn't think it could be true that he really loved her. But Leanne laughed when I said we were only children compared to him. She said her father is eight years older than her mother, and it worked out well for them.'
What every body is saying: DI Tregunna Cornish Crime novel Page 27
