Rose felt a sense of doom. Something had happened to Sarah. She had promised to speak to the girl but had left it too late. Poor Etta, her worst fears had come true.
Jack thanked Rose for inviting him and left. Other people began to follow suit.
‘What was all that about?’ Laura said, watching Jack’s retreating back.
‘I don’t know for certain, but Etta’s been having a few problems with Sarah.’
‘She ought to get Joe to sort her out. He’s no fool.’ Trevor’s admiration was apparent in his voice. ‘Come on, Laura, we’d better go. Rose said they’ve got a meal booked at nine thirty.’
By the time she and her parents left, four paintings had a red sticker on them. ‘I can’t believe it. Real money at last,’ Rose said as she turned to wave to Geoff who had stayed to lock up.
‘You deserve it,’ Evelyn commented firmly as they headed down the road towards the Promenade and the Queen’s Hotel where Arthur had booked a table for dinner.
Rose forgot about Etta and Jack’s serious demeanour until they were strolling home. The sky was clear, each constellation perfectly visible, and the new moon showed thinly with a slight haze outlining it. The tide was way out and so smooth not a ripple showed. Ahead were the lights of Newlyn, which looked Continental in the way the houses were grouped in tiers up the side of the bay. Why didn’t he want me to talk to Etta? Rose wondered. She’s my friend, she might’ve been glad of someone to confide in. Could Sarah have been arrested? But something more than that was bothering Jack, something he didn’t want me to know. Laura and Trevor were none the wiser. No doubt they would all find out soon enough.
All three were ready for bed by the time they reached Newlyn. They had a long day ahead tomorrow: shopping and lunch in Truro, and a concert at St John’s Hall in Penzance in the evening. Rose had bought the tickets in advance. It would be a treat for her parents, they always enjoyed listening to one of the many local male voice choirs.
Brushing her hair until it crackled Rose smiled at the memory of Geoff Carter’s astonished expression when she had walked into the gallery. He might not have spoken but she had read the admiration in his eyes. Life was ironic. It really was all or nothing. On several occasions since David’s death she had been the object of more than one man’s attention. But they never appeared singly. That evening she had been in the same room as two definite suitors and one possible admirer. Recalling the paintings which had sold, Rose shook her head. It was too good to be true. It had been a wonderful evening and a good beginning. She hoped there’d be more sales before the end of the two-week exhibition.
From her bedroom window she took her last ritualistic look at the bay and hoped that whatever trouble Sarah was in, Etta, with Rose’s help, would be able to sort it out.
4
Sarah, frightened and miserable herself, had not known how to deal with her mother’s misery. She had never witnessed such overwhelming grief before, but neither had she been in a situation which warranted it. Etta had coped until their guests returned but once she had explained what had happened and they had departed, full of sympathy and understanding, she had gone to pieces. Around tea-time Sarah knew that help was required. Sensibly, she decided to telephone their GP who called in after surgery had finished and prescribed some mild tranquillisers, enough to last for only a couple of days.
Etta was sleeping now, her face a little less ravaged in repose. Sarah wished she could sleep herself. Downstairs in the unusually quiet house she felt lonely and unloved. Sometime recently she had realised that although she saw Roz and Amy frequently, they were acquaintances rather than friends. When she and Roz had come across that embarrassing and sickening scene at St Ives, Roz had found it amusing; she had no idea of the pain it had caused Sarah. Joe had been her only friend. How she wished she had been nicer to him. His affectionate teasing had been repaid with silence and it was too late now to make amends. And there was also the question of what she had seen the previous night and whether it meant anything. She could not confide in her mother, they had grown too far apart for that. But did she have the nerve to speak to Rose Trevelyan, to ask the advice of a woman she trusted? Before she could decide, the telephone rang. Sarah answered it quickly, hoping she had got there before the low but insistent burring woke her mother. It was an inquiry regarding a booking for later in the year.
Sarah explained why Etta could not come to the phone. She made a note of the name and telephone number and promised to pass on a message. ‘I’m not sure when we’ll be doing bed and breakfast again, but we’ll let you know either way.’ She was amazed at how adult and calm she had sounded, but someone had to take responsibility for their lives.
The woman who had rung to make the reservation had expressed her sympathy, asking Sarah to pass it on to Mrs Chynoweth. It was strange the way in which a contemporary of her mother had ignored her own grief. She had been treated as though the young were invulnerable, immune from pain, or perhaps it was simply that the woman could not find the right words to say to someone of her age.
Thursday night replayed itself in Sarah’s head. She had not been mistaken and if Amy had heard her gasp, she had said nothing. And would she be able to bring herself to lie about the rest of that evening if the police questioned her? They really must believe Joe’s death was an accident as they had not spoken to her at all. She had imagined they would have wanted to know where she was at the very least, and possibly who his friends were. And if she was right, just what relevance did it have? I will speak to Rose, she decided, then suddenly remembered that she would not be at home because it was the opening night of her exhibition and she would be at the gallery in the company of her parents and friends. Tears filled her eyes. She and Etta and Joe should have been there too. In the morning, then. I’ll go and see Rose first thing, she thought, aware of her desperate need to confide in somebody.
Switching on the television in the hope that it would distract her from memories of her brother, she sat down to watch it. It was no use. The false canned laughter made a mockery of her raw feelings. She turned it off again and sobbed, wiping her tears with her bare arm as they dampened the hair which hung over her face. He was her half-brother but it had made no difference. To Sarah he had been someone special and he had always been protective of her. How was it possible that she would never hear his laughter or his cheerful banter again? How she wished she had been nicer to him upon his return. She had no idea why she behaved badly and she was filled with self-loathing. ‘There isn’t a God,’ she said through clenched teeth. ‘There just isn’t a God.’ And soon there would be the funeral to face. It would be the first one she had ever attended. When Ed, the man she could just recall as her father, had died, she had been five years old and Etta had considered her too young to be present, and all her grandparents were still alive. Her maternal set were arriving on Sunday; they had been on holiday in France and, thanks to her mother’s good memory, the police had been able to track them down at their hotel. They would be devastated.
Joe had been loved by her own father’s parents as if he had been their natural, rather than step-grandson. They lived in Scotland and had telephoned to say they would come down and stay until the funeral. From one end of Britain to the other – it was a long journey for the elderly couple to make. No one knew where Joe’s real father was, but as he had not known of the child’s existence Etta saw no reason to try to find him now.
I’d have to know, Sarah thought. If it was the other way around and my mother had had me illegitimately, I’d have to try to find my real father. But Joe had shown no curiosity as to what sort of man he was or where he might be living, he had simply accepted Etta’s explanation of the facts of his conception and birth and had left it at that.
It was odd that the man was French and that two of her grandparents were in France at the time of Joe’s death. Sarah sat on the sofa with her eyes closed and built a fantasy around them accidentally meeting the Frenchman by whom her mother had had a child and them bringing
him back to Cornwall for his son’s funeral where he would fall in love with Etta and somehow make them both happy again. Better fantasy than the reality of what she might have to face.
Jack Pearce left it until Saturday morning before speaking to Trevor and Laura officially. At Rose’s viewing he had refrained from mentioning what had happened because Laura was unable to disguise her feelings and Rose would have wheedled it out of her.
When he arrived at the house they were sitting at the breakfast table, plates and mugs in front of them, whilst they each read a section of the paper. But it was not the Western Morning News in which the dead man had now been named. ‘Jack, come in,’ Laura said, surprised. ‘I’ve just made coffee. Want some?’ He nodded. ‘What is it?’ she asked as she poured. Something had been on his mind last night. It seemed she was about to find out what.
‘I expect you heard that a body was found yesterday –’
‘Yes. It was on the news,’ she interrupted. ‘Oh, God. It’s someone we know.’
Trevor looked up, several frown lines wrinkled his brow.
‘I’m sorry, Laura, it was Joe Chynoweth.’ He had hoped they already knew, that he would not have to break it to them.
‘Joe?’ Trevor’s eyes, set close together, narrowed. ‘They said it was an accident. If so, why are you here?’
‘Because there are certain other circumstances which need investigation.’
‘For Christ’s sake, Jack. How long have we known each other? Cut the jargon and get on with it.’
‘Joe was found in possession of drugs.’
‘Not Joe. Never. Don’t be a fool as well as a pompous bastard.’
‘I don’t like having to do this,’ he said as Laura turned to hand him his coffee. He had not even given them time to let the news sink in. Their joint shock was obvious. ‘Obviously I know you well enough not to imagine you were involved in the boy’s death, but the way the drugs problem is escalating I need to ask you certain questions.’
‘Fire away,’ Trevor said, his eyes glittering with anger.
Laura, disgusted with her childhood friend, slammed his mug on the table. Its contents slopped over the rim. ‘Yes, fire away, Jack. Didn’t you realise Trevor’s a drugs baron? That’s why we live the way we do.’ She waved an arm to encompass the kitchen which was in need of decoration and the mismatched china on the table.
‘Laura, please. I said I hate doing this but I came myself rather than send a couple of uniforms.’
She sat down and chewed at her lip. Yes, she was angry with Jack but she was more upset than she realised at Joe’s death. And he had had so much to live for.
‘Did you know or even suspect what he might have been doing?’
‘No. And I still don’t believe it. You must’ve made a mistake. The police aren’t infallible.’ It was Laura who spoke. She paused. ‘But you don’t know yet if he was taking them, do you? You can’t possibly know until after the post-mortem.’
‘No, not for certain. Look, I have to ask, have you ever had any drugs on board?’ he said, addressing Trevor.
‘For Christ’s sake, Jack, you know Billy doesn’t even allow drink on a trip. And to save your time, the answer to almost anything you’re going to ask me will be no. You should be out there finding out who supplied him, if they did, which I don’t believe for one second, but if it should turn out to be the case it was no one of my acquaintance.’
Jack knew that Trevor was furious and that he was also right, but it would be like searching for the proverbial needle in a haystack. He finished his coffee and left. Much as he did not want to, he would have a quick word with Billy Cadogan and Jan Trevorrah and leave it at that. Joe’s death must surely have been accidental but it was unlikely they would discover anything from the other two men. If Joe had confided in anyone it was more likely to be this man. Jack knew that most of what he was asking was superfluous, that Billy and his crew were extremely unlikely to have been involved, but he supposed he’d hoped for some sort of information, the smallest hint, maybe, as to any contacts Joe may have had. There were few secrets in West Penwith, however, but this time there seemed none to be found.
Mrs Trevorrah answered the door in a thigh-length silky dressing-gown which she was hastily knotting around the middle. She was in her early twenties and had beautiful slanting eyes which altered an otherwise plain face. She looked as if she had just got out of bed because her hair was tangled and she yawned behind her hand. Jack thought lying in bed was an awful waste of a beautiful day until her husband appeared, wearing only narrow underpants. He realised what he had interrupted, which, after his interview, might not be resumed. This was an even worse waste in his opinion. But the job was the job.
‘Jan Trevorrah? I’m Inspector Pearce, Devon and Cornwall police. Sorry to intrude, but I’d like to ask you a few questions.’ They were standing in the hallway. No one attempted to invite him anywhere else and Jack guessed that they were anxious to get back to their Saturday morning entertainment. ‘Can you tell me anything about Joe Chynoweth?’
‘Such as?’
‘What sort of man was he?’
‘Was. Yes. Billy phoned, that’s how I know. I still can’t believe it.’
‘Mr Trevorrah?’
‘Yeah. Sorry. Good fisherman. Kept to the rules. Decent bloke to have on board or to have a drink with, but he never went too far, just a few pints now and then. But I’d never have guessed he was a user. Never in a hundred years. Mind you, I’ve only known him about eighteen months, since the time I started working with Billy. If you want any more than that you’ll have to ask Rose.’
‘Rose? What’s she got to do with it?’
Jan looked startled. ‘There’s no need to be rude. I thought you lot went in for dealing with the public tactfully these days.’
‘I apologise.’ Jack was lost for words. Did Rose know these people too?
‘Tell him, Rose. You went to school with him.’
Jack turned to face Trevorrah’s wife. How stupid of him. There wasn’t only one woman in the world with that name, especially in this particular part of the world.
‘We were in the same class. He worked hard but he was never what you’d call a swot. I didn’t know him that well really, but he seemed nice enough and he kept out of trouble, not like some, and everyone seemed to like him. I heard he could’ve gone to university if he wanted.’ She shrugged and pulled her robe tightly around her body. ‘We didn’t really mix so I can’t tell you no more than that.’
‘Thank you. I won’t take up any more of your time then.’ Jack left with a growing feeling of disquiet. Something was wrong here. From everyone they had spoken to they had heard the same story: Joe Chynoweth was a likeable, honest young man. Hopefully, by the time he got to Camborne the results from the fingerprints taken from the small plastic packet would be waiting.
Ten thirty; still most of the day ahead of him when he arrived at his desk, only to learn that the results he had been waiting for were negative. Partial prints had been lifted from the packet containing the heroin but they were not clear enough to be matched to Joe’s or to anyone else’s.
Jack read the scene-of-crime report. It added little to what had been obvious at the time. Joe had fallen through the bushes, leaving a trail of broken twigs. He had landed on the concrete at the base of the cliff, broken his neck on impact and continued to roll over the edge on to the rocks and shingle, sustaining other minor injuries on the way. Initially his death had appeared to be accidental, as, in reality, it still did. But closer investigation revealed there had been signs in the scuff marks on the dry soil that a second person, possibly even two, might have been present. Had Joe gone to meet a supplier and, drunk, or high already, slipped? If so, had whoever this man or men were, pushed him over the side? If they were involved with drugs they would not hang around to answer any questions if it had been an accident. Or was it more sinister than that? Had Joe refused to part with money and been killed?
Jack shook his head. He was begi
nning to accept that Joe was not a user – the post-mortem would confirm this or otherwise – but was it possible he had been a pusher? He had lived at home with his mother and sister and earned a good living fishing. He was not extravagant and could therefore have saved enough to begin buying the stuff. After that the profits would have taken care of the rest.
Does Rose know yet? he wondered. Surely she must, Laura would have rung her immediately after his visit.
Before he could ring her himself an outside call was put through to him. It was a man who called himself Douggie, although Jack knew that was not his real name. He was an informer, a man who had once served time because of being informed upon and who had now turned the tables. His information, picked up in pubs, was not always accurate but had, occasionally, proved useful. He said he wanted to meet Jack as soon as possible.
Jack rubbed the back of his neck. Would the trip be worth it? Yes, he’d have to go. Something or nothing, he thought as he left the building he’d so recently entered.
The heat in the car was unbearable. The air-cooling system blew ineffectively, wafting warm currents into his face. Jack wound down both front windows, grateful for the breeze created by the motion of the car. Ripples of heat shimmered over the sticky tarmac and made the road undulate in the distance. Sweat ran down Jack’s back and dampened his shirt as he neared his destination. Once he reached Penzance he parked and walked to the café where he knew Douggie would be waiting. His informant was sitting with a cup of something in front of him as he scratched his grizzled head. Douggie had lived in the area all his life and knew every inch of it and many of its inhabitants but, more importantly, he also knew the movements of the ones who were of interest to the police. How no one had tumbled him was a mystery to Jack. What he did for a living was also a mystery and best not inquired into if he wasn’t to lose one of the best sources of information in the area.
Betrayed in Cornwall Page 4
