What every body is saying: DI Tregunna Cornish Crime novel

by Carla Vermaat

  ‘You are an intelligent man, Mr Tregunna. Don’t treat me as if you think I’m stupid.’

  ‘Siobhan.’

  Even mentioning her name brings a smile to his face. He adores the girl. Perhaps that’s why he is so unhealthily possessive.

  ‘You went to her school. You spoke to her.’

  ‘Hm.’ He could cause a lot of problems for me if he brings this out in the open. Especially when he finds out about our trip to Polbrook.

  ‘I am aware that you don’t have children, Mr Tregunna, so I suppose you can’t understand my feelings for her. I love that girl to bits.’ His face darkens and his eyes glaze over. ‘Especially after … three years ago we lost her sister. She was sixteen. She was caught up in an accident. The driver hit her and left her on the verge. She was found the next day. The driver has never been found.’ He straightens suddenly. ‘I don’t know why I am telling you this.’

  ‘I listen.’

  ‘Yes.’ He narrows his eyes, scrutinising my face but in a positive manner. ‘You do. You seem to be able to read people.’

  ‘I read their body language.’ I wish I could read myself as well as he suggests I can read other people.

  ‘I would like to know what Siobhan told you.’

  ‘That is private.’

  ‘I thought you would say that.’ He pauses. ‘I could have had you charged for that. You questioned an underage girl without consent.’

  I nod, suppressing my smile, but he is not that bad reading other people either. ‘I thought you would say that.’

  ‘Point taken, Mr Tregunna, but I would still like to know what she told you.’

  ‘Maybe you ought to ask your daughter.’

  ‘I did.’ He smiles faintly, wary, uneasy. ‘She’s a brave little girl, I can tell you that. Gave me an ultimatum: she would tell me everything if I promised not to send her to another school. Mind you, my wife and I were seriously considering boarding school, but she pointed out to me that a boarding school doesn’t necessarily mean the pupils can’t sneak out. And I wouldn’t even know because I suppose the school wouldn’t tell us everything.’ He shrugs, annoyed by his inability to control everything to do with his daughter. Or maybe to do with life in general. ‘Anyway, her second condition was that we accept Leanne as her friend.’

  ‘And you have?’

  ‘Of course I have. Does that surprise you? I admire my daughter’s courage to stand up to me.’ He has some odd values.

  ‘If she told you everything, why are you here?’

  ‘I have a feeling that she was … let’s say, a bit creative with the truth.’

  ‘Perhaps that’s in her genes.’

  ‘You may well be right there, Mr Tregunna. That’s why I came to see you. I would like to compare our versions of her story. Find the discrepancies.’

  ‘Or perhaps she didn’t tell you anything.’

  ‘I am not a liar.’

  ‘You lied when I came to see you when she disappeared.’

  ‘Mm. I can see your point. But let’s not beat about the bush, Mr Tregunna. You called me about my daughter. You knew she wasn’t at home. You knew she hadn’t been home all night. Nobody knew that. I hadn’t told a soul. So, how did you know?’

  ‘Because Patrick and Elsie Lobb, Leanne’s parents, were worried to death when they found out that their daughter was missing. Unlike you, they called the police.'

  I pause. He has the decency to avoid my eyes for a single second.

  'Leanne and Siobhan are best friends. They are always together, except when she’s at home, for obvious reasons. Best friends, especially girls of that age, tell each other everything. I couldn’t believe that Leanne would go to that gig to see that pop idol all by herself. I was certain that Siobhan would have gone with her.’

  ‘You seem to know my daughter better than I do.’

  ‘Children don’t tell their parents everything, Mr Carter. In fact, parents are often the last to know their children’s little secrets.’

  ‘Hm. My wife says the same thing.’

  ‘So that leaves us with the question of why you lied to me, Mr Carter.’

  He leans back. ‘That is not the reason why I came to see you.’

  ‘I guess not, but I want to know everything as much as you do.’ I look at him, searching his face for a clue. Any clue to help get to the truth.

  ‘To be frank, I feel quite embarrassed by this. I thought you kidnapped her. When you phoned me, I had your number and I traced your address. I found out that you were a police officer, but you weren’t officially working.’

  ‘Is that why you kidnapped me?’

  ‘Kidnapped you? Why would I do that?' His surprise seems genuine.

  ‘To teach me a lesson?

  ‘Honestly, Mr Tregunna, I don’t know what you are talking about.’

  ‘Why did you think I kidnapped your daughter?’

  ‘Because I had … a dispute with someone a couple of weeks ago. A very nasty man. He claims that I have robbed him but … anyway. He warned me that the whole affair hadn’t been settled to his satisfaction and he said there were other ways to get his money back.’

  ‘And you thought he took your daughter.’

  ‘When she was missing? Yes. I didn’t want to call the police because I didn’t want to make things worse.’

  ‘What’s the man’s name?’

  ‘I don’t …’

  ‘Off the record.’

  ‘Hunter.’

  Not a name that had popped up during the investigation. ‘Well, I can’t disclose the whole matter to you at this moment, but I don’t think it is your Mr Hunter. In fact, and now I am being very honest with you, and maybe also very stupid to tell you this, but when I spoke to Siobhan at her school the other day, we didn’t stay in the school. I don’t think your bodyguard noticed that we went out through the back exit and we drove somewhere.’

  ‘What! Why …’

  ‘If you want to keep your family safe, perhaps you need to consider your security arrangements. But that is by-the-by. I am just telling you, off the record, that with the help of Siobhan, I will soon be questioning two young men who were involved in ... the trip to that gig in Plymouth.’

  His face is ashen. I gesture the girl from the café and order another double espresso for him and a large glass of mineral water. ‘I lied to you,’ he says softly. ‘She didn’t tell me anything.’

  ‘Siobhan will keep her secrets. Especially as you ignored her friendship with Leanne Lobb.'

  'I am sorry about that too.'

  'I'm glad about that, Mr Carter. Those girls have had quite an adventure and they need each other. Leanne is still devastated about what happened to her. Oh, it wasn't as bad as we all feared, but still it has had an impact on a young girl's life.'

  'Do you know ...?' He can't speak the words.

  ‘Leanne was deeply in love with someone. She lied to him when she told him she was seventeen, almost eighteen. Although he must have known that she was younger, he didn't care. I don't think he loved her. Let's just say he was flattered by her adoration and he took advantage of that. Not of her, though. Everything happened with Leanne's full consent. And your daughter, well, she was brave enough to lock herself in one of the other rooms. Apparently, the other guy didn't like her enough to persuade her to let him in.’

  If his face hadn’t already gone pale, he would have gone even paler.

  ‘And that is the truth, Mr Carter.’

  He is silent for a long time, sipping his strong coffee and staring into his empty cup afterwards as if the dregs could tell him something. Or, perhaps, he sees himself reflected in it, and is disgusted with himself because he had it all so wrong.

  'Mr Lobb is an extraordinarily generous man, Mr Carter. Leanne has confessed everything to her parents. Obviously they were furious. They pressed her to tell them the name of the young man involved, but when they realised that she was just as guilty by lying about her age, they decided to drop the charges against him. They hope he wi
ll have learned from all of this. And Leanne and Siobhan too.'

  'How much of this is your doing, Mr Tregunna?'

  'Err ...'

  'I thought so.' He smiles vaguely. ‘I owe you an apology, Mr Tregunna. I was … wrong.’

  The obese family are leaving, replaced by two ladies in their late sixties, chitchatting like sixteen-year-olds and arguing furiously about whether or not to indulge themselves with a piece of Victoria sponge with their tea.

  ‘Siobhan is a lovely girl, Mr Carter. Please don’t make the mistake of keeping her away from her friends.’

  ‘You are a wise man.’

  ‘Not as wise as I should be, Mr Carter. I have …’

  He interrupts, holding up his hand. ‘Please call me Victor.’

  ‘Okay. I’m Andy.’ We shake hands across the table.

  ’I’m still not much the wiser,’ I say slowly, ‘If you didn’t kidnap me, then who did?’

  47

  There is something familiar about the tall and rather skinny man seated on the far side of the bed. He rises quickly when I enter the room, taking two steps towards me and then realises that his escape route is blocked.

  ‘Inspector,’ Jonathan Casey hisses, eyes almost panicking as I stop to view the situation. ‘My friend is just leaving.’

  He is in the bed, upright, his arm still in a sling, dried blood on his forehead, purple bruises on his arms sticking out of a hospital gown. Perhaps I should have bought him pyjamas instead of a bag of fruit and magazines.

  ‘I don’t want to interfere.’

  ‘No, honestly, he was just leaving.’

  There is something in his eyes as they shoot towards his visitor.

  ‘And who is this, Mr Casey? Won’t you introduce us?’

  His shoulders sag as the tall man accepts defeat. He slums back in the chair between Jonathan’s bed and the window.

  ‘This is Bernie, my mate. Detective Inspector Tregunna.’

  The name sticks in my head. Bernie. ‘As in the former partner of Ms Robson? Whittaker?’

  ‘Yes.’ Jonathan smoothes out his blanket and makes sure it is straight. Bernie straightens his back and has his hands on the armrest of his chair. Ready for take off.

  I lean against the foot of the bed, blocking his escape route. In films, he might have jumped over Jonathan, but this is the real world. He knows that I will catch him eventually.

  ‘How are you feeling, Mr Casey?’

  ‘How do you think?’ He sounds bitter. Piteously. ‘I’ve just lost everything.'

  'I am sorry you feel that way.'

  He shrugs, stares out of the window, following the silver dot of an airplane high in the sky.

  ‘It’s good to see you, Mr Whittaker,’ I say casually, turning to his visitor. ‘You were not aware that we were trying to find you?’

  He doesn’t ask why. ‘No.’ He shakes his head uncertainly, not knowing what to think about me or the precarious situation he finds himself in.

  ‘I believe you can enlighten me about what happened to Hugo Holmes.’

  Shock and disbelief cloud his eyes. 'I don’t …’

  ‘No, please, don’t treat me as if you think I’m stupid, Bernie. I know what happened. I only need you, and Jonathan, to fill in some …. minor blanks.’

  The word minor does the trick. It sticks in his brain. He relaxes.

  ‘And by the way, the French police have been very helpful. They found Mrs Robson’s car just off the ferry in Calais. She should have taken the train, then maybe it will be more difficult for us to find her.’

  ‘She was always scared of tunnels,’ says Jonathan, almost sympathizing with her. ‘Where is she now?’

  I shrug, as if it doesn’t matter to me. ‘Somewhere in France, I suppose.’

  Surprise. Then fear, as it dawns on him that it might not all be over. ‘They haven’t found her?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  A short silence. Bernie Whittaker opens his mouth like a fish gasping for air, his hands clasped over the arm rests of his chair. His knuckles are white. Jonathan speaks, clearing his throat first.

  ‘What about the children?’

  I swallow. I can’t make this easier for him. ‘They were found in the car.’

  I’m not so sure if I believe the French police, who assume that Bee must have got out for an errand, leaving Charlotte and Deacon asleep. I am more inclined to believe that she made a run when she found her car surrounded by police and realised she had more chance to escape without them.

  ‘In the car? Are they alright?’

  ‘Yes. They are travelling back to as we speak, Mr Casey. They’re being taken care of.’

  ‘Can I see them?’

  ‘They’ll be taken to a foster home. A temporary solution.’

  He starts to sob. ‘I will never see them again, will I? I’m not their family.’

  I doubt he’s in a mental state to look after himself, let alone two young children whose mother is a suspect in the murder inquiry of Hugo Holmes and his mother. Who attempted to kill Jonathan as well.

  ‘I’m sure they will be alright, Mr Casey. Social Services have only one priority and that is the children’s safety.’

  ‘But they will be safe with me! I have always made sure that … she’d never hurt them. Not them.’

  I try to catch his gaze, but he looks down. ‘Did she hurt you instead?’

  ‘No, she only hurt me when I deserved it.' He is obviously determined to stick by her side.

  'You accepted punishment when she said you did something wrong?’

  ‘It wasn’t her fault, inspector. It was mine.’

  His friend stirs next to him, looking down. Understanding. Keeping his mouth shut.

  ‘You can’t honestly believe that, Jonathan,' I say.

  ‘It’s the truth!'

  ‘She abused you. She beat you. Not once, not accidentally. She hurt you because she wanted to hurt you. We found records of you attending A&E. Your broken arm, for starters. Previously you were there with broken ribs.’

  Stubbornly he shakes his head. ‘I’m clumsy.’

  ‘Jonathan,’ I say, trying not to appear patronising. ‘You are not clumsy. It is maybe what she wanted you to believe, but you are a normal human being.'

  'No I’m not. Sometimes, she shouted at me that I’m a waste of space and she’s right. It was me. I made a mess of it.' His voice trails off in a half-sob.

  'I know what you've been through, Jonathan. I promise you everything will be alright.' His friend taps his arm clumsily.

  More frantic shaking of Jonathan's head. 'If I’ve said something about her then I’ll take it back. I'm not having her charged and accused of something that is my fault.’

  I turn to Bernie for support. We exchange looks. I can see compassion on his face. Whereas I find it difficult to comprehend that Jonathan is still defending Bee, Bernie understands.

  ‘Jonathan.’ Bernie Whittaker clears his throat. Tears glisten in his eyes and his bottom lip trembles like that of a young boy who isn’t allowed to play with his older brother’s toys. ‘Jonathan, please, I know exactly how you feel. I have been there, you know that. But once this is all over … you will see that it’s all for the best.'

  'I can't ... I'm sorry.' Closing his eyes, he rests his head on the pillow and sobs. There is a jug half-filled with water and melting ice cubes on his bedside table, along with an empty glass with a yellow straw in it. I pour him another glass of water and hand it to him. He accepts it as if he isn’t sure what it is.

  Bernie speaks to him in a soft voice. Comfort. Understanding. Support. Shared hurt and pain. Humiliation.

  I've never been able to understand why someone can be abused and still love the abuser. Or at least stay with them. I remember the couple in the supermarket car park, the woman sheltering in the car from the rain, while her husband got soaked, with resigned acceptance. The couple in the at Trerice, where the husband publicly humiliated his wife which she just accepted, probably finding excuses for hi
m, and telling herself that it was all her own fault. Jonathan still loves Bee. Adores her. Worships her. Up to a point, I can understand that he stayed with her for the sake of the children, but he could have ended the relationship in the very beginning, when he was first subjected to her violent beatings. He should have realised that it was a pattern, not a one-off, and more importantly that he would never be able to break the pattern. People like Bee Holmes are often victims of abuse themselves. A vicious circle rather than the end of the line.

  Bernie turns to me, his eyes clear. Relieved that it is over. ‘Has she been arrested?’

  ‘Not yet. But soon. She will be charged with murder, attempted murder and physical and mental abuse.'

  ‘Will she go to prison?’ Jonathan asks slowly, incredulously.

  ‘You won’t have to see her again unless you choose to yourself.’

  Looks are exchanged. ‘Do we have to go to court?’

  ‘I think we can arrange a video hearing for you. You are traumatized victims.’

  Jonathan starts to sob again, but this time it is more to release the tension and fear. Bernie grabs his hand. United in fate, fear and finally in freedom.

  I feel almost sorry to interfere but I need to know the truth. ‘What can you tell me about Hugo's death, Bernie? I will need you to come to the police station for a formal statement, but I would like to ask you some questions now.’

  He hesitates. ‘It is a long story.’

  ‘We have plenty of time,’ I say casually. I’d rather not look at my watch. I left Lauren with a cup of tea and a magazine in the café at the entrance where I will collect her after I have spoken to Jonathan and Bernie.

  ‘I’ve just seen your doctor, Jonathan. He said you'll be here for a couple of nights. And I have … time to spare.’

  Bernie’s story is much the same as I had figured out myself already. He met Millicent after the death of Jimmy Archer. In the beginning, he felt sorry for her and her young children but gradually he became involved in her life. She asked him to move in with them and he did. By then he was over the moon. He loved her. Adored her. Worshipped her. He lived in a dream. He couldn’t believe his luck that a woman so beautiful and attractive and successful in her job had fallen for him. The abuse started slowly and so gradually he hardly noticed. First, he thought she wanted rough sex and he was willing to go along with it. But bit by bit, he learned more about her relationship with Jimmy. She could hide her past from him, but the oldest child couldn’t be silenced. Charlotte loved her daddy and missed him every day. Bernie started asking questions and it didn’t take long for him to understand what Millicent’s real character was like. Unpredictable. Abusive. Violent. She could smile one moment and burst into a rage the next. He never knew what triggered her rage and he started to avoid her. He thought of leaving her, but he'd grown fond of the children and there were times that she was really good to him.