They could go out and search it but what they wanted was something more than what might or might not be on board. If the vessel contained drugs they wanted the men who came to collect them. Often waterproof packages were thrown over the side and floated with corks, sometimes they were sunk in crab pots with marker bouys to show where they were. By the time they were collected whoever had dropped them had disappeared.
They knew all the tricks; the swallowing of condoms filled with crack, the mothballs in a suitcase to confuse sniffer dogs, they’d seen it all. What the smugglers didn’t realise was that drugs were still traceable, that urine tests could pick up the minutest amount in the system, that the dogs weren’t fooled by mothballs.
But this time it was different. It appeared that the trawler was waiting for a boat to meet it. It was the most risky way of making a deal. Maybe money was changing hands. Soon they would know.
Radar would pick up the signal and track the boat as soon as it began to move. They did not want to risk being seen too soon or whatever the vessel was carrying would be jettisoned over the side.
They continued to play the waiting game throughout the whole of Monday.
7
On Monday morning Evelyn had suggested to Arthur that as Rose was unaccustomed to having people around her all day long, she might be grateful for a little solitude, especially in view of Joe’s death and the disappearance of his sister. The Forbeses then told their daughter that they had no intention of making a nuisance of themselves by tying her down for the whole of their stay. What they didn’t say was what they had admitted to each other in the privacy of their bedroom, that a few hours to themselves would be welcome. It was not as easy as it used to be to keep up with Rose’s pace.
They decided to spend an hour or so looking around the shops in Penzance for a present for Rose. There were numerous small galleries and places to buy locally made crafts. Evelyn rather liked the jewellery fashioned from Cornish gem-stones and polished granite but she knew her daughter did not share her taste. Unsure what would please Rose most, Evelyn finally settled upon a white china jug decorated with flowers in vivid shades of red and purple. It had been hand-turned by a local potter and bore his signature on the base.
‘It’s a little, uh, garish, don’t you think?’ Arthur commented as they went to the desk to pay for it.
‘It’s cheerful. And it’ll look lovely with daffodils in it in the spring. Or tulips. Besides, you’ve seen the collection of pottery on the shelf in Rose’s kitchen, she likes basic shapes and primary colours.’ Evelyn found this odd when her paintings were so subtle.
‘Fair enough,’ Arthur said, producing a credit card from his wallet. He wondered why his wife had bothered to ask his opinion when she was so obviously determined to have it.
When the vase had been carefully wrapped in tissue and placed in a carrier bag Arthur declared it was time to eat. ‘Do you think we’ve made the right choice?’ Evelyn asked for the second time over crab salad.
Arthur chose to ignore the ‘we’ and simply nodded because his mouth was full. He had no intention of going back to the shop to change their gift.
After the meal they walked down to the harbour then back along the sea-front where they found a vacant seat to enjoy the lazy heat which was now tempered by the breeze off the sea. Voices drifted up from below the sea wall. Arthur closed his eyes and sighed. Here was the same question again.
‘She’ll be ecstatic,’ he replied with a finality which Evelyn could not fail to recognise. ‘Shall I pop across the road and get us an ice-cream or are you up for a cream tea?’
‘A cream tea sounds like a lovely idea. We shall have to diet when we go home. Why does food always taste better when you’ve been out in the fresh air all day? We never seem to stop eating whilst we’re down here.’
‘I’ve no idea. Come on, let’s make a move, we don’t want to be back too late in case Rose has made any plans for this evening. You know what she’s like.’
Evelyn smiled. Indeed she did. Always fearing they would be bored, Rose scoured the local paper and the posters in shop windows looking for simple entertainment. And there was plenty of it, Evelyn had to admit: amateur dramatics groups whose productions were far from amateur, classical music concerts, male voice choirs, female choirs, fêtes and fairs, gardens to visit and the cinema in Causewayhead. What Rose didn’t understand was that they were never bored in Cornwall as long as they could walk and as long as they could simply relax with their only child.
They ate their scones with clotted cream and jam and sipped China tea. It was just after four when they reached the art gallery and they still had to walk up the hill. However, they were both glad to be free of the car and knew that the exercise was doing them good.
Vehicles shimmered in the hot afternoon sun. The air was heavy with exhaust and diesel as traffic built up in Newlyn: a French pantechnicon which was being loaded with fish from the market had blocked one side of the road. Melted ice lay in puddles, ignored by the fishermen in their rubber boots. Brightly coloured plastic fish boxes clattered as they were stacked high. On the top of each pile of glistening fish was a sodden label denoting both the name of the trawler and that of the buyer.
It was later than they had anticipated when they finally reached the house. ‘She’s not here,’ Evelyn said, puzzled, when she opened the door to silence. But both cars were in the drive, Rose hadn’t gone far, she had probably decided to go for a walk. They had been given a spare key many years before and it was permanently attached to Evelyn’s key-ring. The house was airless and a bluebottle buzzed against the sitting-room window which Evelyn opened immediately. It flew out angrily as if she was responsible for its captivity. ‘I think I’ll start supper, it’ll give her a break. Would you like a drink?’
‘Ideal. Whisky and water, please.’
She poured a generous measure and a smaller gin and tonic for herself. In the fridge were the salad ingredients which Rose had said they would be having with the thick steaks she had bought from the local butcher. The meat came from his own herds. Simple food, easy to prepare and tasty, Evelyn thought as she eyed the creamy fat and reached into the clutter of the kitchen drawer for the garlic press.
Arthur strolled out to the garden, his glass in his hand, the Western Morning News under his arm. He sat on the wrought-iron seat and sighed deeply with contentment. ‘That view,’ he said, when Evelyn joined him a few minutes later. ‘No wonder she wouldn’t dream of moving.’
‘I know. I love our cottage dearly, and especially the garden, but in some ways I envy her.’ Ahead, the bay was a blue so rich it seemed false, as if a child had attempted to depict it with poster paints. Sailing boats moved slowly in the distance and St Michael’s Mount was outlined clearly against the shoreline behind it and the blue sky above it.
The rich scent of geraniums and the honeysuckle Rose had trailed along the wall filled the air. Voices of unseen people down on the road could be heard. Tourists walking back to Mousehole, they gathered, as they overheard a man and a woman discuss where they were going to eat that night.
‘She’s late,’ Evelyn commented. ‘I wonder where she’s gone.’
‘Probably found something she fancied drawing and is still caught up in her work. I’ve never known anyone who could concentrate for such long periods as our daughter. She’s always been single-minded.’
Evelyn smiled and placed a blue-veined hand on his thigh. ‘I’m never quite sure how we managed to produce her between the two of us. But I’m very grateful that we did.’
The position of the sun had shifted imperceptibly. Evelyn’s shadow was a fraction more elongated as she got up to pour their second drink. It was a habit they had acquired since giving up farming when every minute of the day had been occupied. Once they had settled into the cottage Arthur had declared he wanted to live a more civilised life. Evelyn had agreed that two drinks before dinner was exceptionally civilised.
‘It’s half-past five,’ Arthur said, beginning to sou
nd concerned.
‘But there’re hours yet until it’s dark. It’s probably as you said, she’s wrapped up in her painting and has forgotten the time.’ It was Evelyn’s turn to offer reassurance but she frowned as she spoke. Her husband’s anxiety had rubbed off on her. She went inside to prepare the salad and mix her own special dressing. The steaks were marinading in red wine vinegar. herbs and garlic and the kitchen table was laid for three.
‘It’s ten to six now, Arthur,’ Evelyn said when she had put the covered bowl of salad in the fridge. ‘I think we should call somebody,’ she suggested nervously.
‘Who?’
‘I don’t know. One of her friends, maybe.’
They both stood by the telephone as Evelyn dialled Laura’s number followed by Doreen Clarke’s. Although they had heard much about Doreen they had not met her until Friday night. She was exactly as Rose had described her, her artist’s eye had missed no detail. Hayle born and bred, she had an ex-miner husband who had turned to gardening. Doreen was a plump, bolster-breasted, bustling woman who dressed twenty years out of date and wore her iron grey hair cut to chin level with an uncompromising fringe. Although the same age as Rose, she looked at least ten years older. Evelyn remembered the dress she had worn. Maroon brocade with a sweetheart neckline. She had possessed one similar back in the fifties. But Doreen was a well-meaning, generous woman and a wonderful source of gossip.
Neither Laura nor Doreen had seen Rose that day and both women sounded alarmed by the call. Barry Rowe added to their concern by sounding worried himself. It was he who suggested they telephone Jack Pearce.
‘What did he mean by that?’ Evelyn asked when Arthur told her that Barry had suggested they call Jack because Rose was always getting herself into trouble.
Arthur shook his head. ‘I’ve no idea, but I think we should take his advice.’
Evelyn turned the page of the notebook in which Rose had written addresses and telephone numbers. There were many crossings-out and squeezed-in additions. Two numbers were listed for Jack, one with an H beside it, the second with a W. She tried his home number first. He answered surprisingly quickly.
‘I’m really sorry to bother you when you’re off duty, but we wondered if you had any idea where Rose might be? We’re not sure where or when she went out and we’re just a bit worried because she isn’t home yet and we told her we’d be back around four.’
Jack, with head and limbs already aching, felt another ache. But this one wasn’t physical. If Rose was in trouble he would blame himself. He had known earlier that she would not let matters rest. ‘She rang me this morning, twice in fact, but I haven’t heard from her since. Mrs Forbes, do you know how to work her answering-machine?’
‘Yes, I think so.’ No lights flashed, but each appliance was different. Her hopes were raised. She had not thought of trying to see if Rose had telephoned and left a message, but she felt that to press the buttons would be an intrusion of her daughter’s privacy.
‘Then hang up and play any messages and get back to me.’
She did so, then pressed the redial button to be reconnected with Jack. ‘There’s nothing, Jack, no messages at all.’
‘Christ,’ he muttered, hoping Mrs Forbes had not heard him. ‘Look, is it all right if I come over?’ It was the last thing he felt like doing, but this was so typical of Rose, becoming involved in issues best left to people like himself. But surely she would not leave her mother in a state of limbo. What could have happened to her to make her so late? He preferred not to think about that. But he ought to know better, panic was infectious. It was hardly 3 a.m. on a winter’s morning.
Evelyn hung up. She was near to tears and felt rather foolish. Rose was a grown woman and it was only six o’clock in the evening but she had been distracted, more concerned than she was saying about the manner of Joe Chynoweth’s death, and if Jack Pearce felt he had to come over she was certain something was wrong.
‘She’ll be all right,’ Arthur said, putting an arm around his wife’s shoulders. ‘She’s tough.’
‘I know.’ Evelyn sniffed and decided that falling apart would not help anyone.
Jack shivered despite the warmth of the evening. He could not recall having felt so ill for many years. At least it would soon be over. One by one his colleagues had succumbed to the virus. It lasted about three days. He had no idea why he was going to Rose’s house and had probably alarmed her parents unnecessarily by suggesting it. Stupidly, he had forgotten to ask whether they had noticed if Rose had taken her mobile phone with her. ‘Blast her. I bet she didn’t,’ he muttered as he eased his aching limbs into the stuffiness of the car. For the moment his interest was that of a friend. Jack did not feel a visit from the constabulary was called for; he hoped it never would be. Rose was just being untypically selfish.
‘Oh, Jack, you look awful. Come in. Really, there was no need for you to come. Would you like a drink or some tea?’ Evelyn was embarrassed – she had acted like an over-fussy mother.
‘Tea would be fine, thank you.’ He had sat down, uninvited. So used to being in Rose’s house he had not waited to be asked and hoped Evelyn Forbes had not taken offence at his familiarity. She left the room seeming not to have noticed.
‘What do you make of all this?’ Arthur asked. He stood with his back to the fireplace, his stance not quite so upright as usual. ‘Is she usually so tardy?’
‘I don’t know,’ Jack replied ambiguously, although he was unsure what Arthur meant by ‘all this’.
‘There’s not the remotest chance it’s anything to do with that boy’s death, I suppose? Only Rose – well, you know Rose.’
‘Why do you ask? Has she said anything?’ Maybe she had told her parents more than she had told him. And, yes, Arthur was probably right and Rose had ignored his warning; it wasn’t like Rose to be late or to cause her parents or anyone else anxiety, even unintentionally.
Arthur shrugged and slipped his hands into the pockets of his lightweight trousers. ‘Something Barry Rowe said, about Rose getting herself in trouble.’
They don’t know, Jack thought, hardly able to believe it. They really have no idea of the risks she has taken and all that has happened to her in the past. Which made it more likely than ever that something had happened to her now. If she had gone to such lengths to protect them from the knowledge of the danger she had encountered at various times, she would not expose them to it now without very good reason.
‘Did you check to see if there was a note?’ Jack asked when Evelyn returned with a tray of tea upon which, he noticed, for his benefit was a bottle of aspirin.
‘It was the first thing I did. All our lives the three of us have left messages by the kettle for each other. It’s the first thing we reach for when we get in.’
Jack bit back his retort. He’d almost suggested that Evelyn ought to look in the fridge to see if one wasn’t taped to a bottle of Frascati. ‘Her car’s here, she can’t have gone far, that’s what puzzles me. Who have you contacted?’
‘We rang everyone we could think of, leaving you until last.’
‘Everyone?’
‘Except Mrs Chynoweth. We didn’t want to bother her under the circumstances.’
‘May I?’ Jack indicated the telephone. Evelyn nodded. Etta’s number was in Rose’s book which still lay open by the phone. Her handwriting had become familiar to him during the time in which he had known her. Barely legible, it straggled across the page, frequently missing the lines. Seeing it again gave him a strange sensation in the pit of his stomach.
‘Yes,’ Jack said, several times, nodding to himself. ‘Yes, I see. Thank you, Mrs Chynoweth.’ He did not mention Joe and his own suspicions, for the moment he was more concerned about Rose.
‘There’s no news, is there? Of Sarah?’
Damn it, he thought. And I accused Rose of being thoughtless. No wonder Etta’s voice had lifted upon hearing his. She must have imagined her daughter had been found. ‘No, but we’re still looking. It’s only twenty-four
hours, there’s still the chance she’ll turn up on the doorstep.’ He did not believe that now but Etta’s day must have been one of the most, if not the most, horrendous of her life. Every conceivable shed and outhouse was being searched but just because Sarah had said they used one it did not mean that’s where they actually were.
Jack made one more call and received confirmation of where Etta had told him Rose had been earlier in the day. He turned to the Forbeses whose slumped postures gave away the depth of their anxiety. Jack did his best to smile. ‘She walked down to the gallery just after lunch. Geoff Carter told me a couple more paintings have been sold and Rose was delighted.’
Evelyn nodded. Rose’s success no longer mattered, she wanted her daughter back.
‘From what Etta Chynoweth told me, Rose must have gone straight to her from the gallery. That was about three. She stayed for forty-five minutes or thereabouts.’ Which leaves approximately two and a half hours unaccounted for, Jack thought. An awful lot could occur in that amount of time.
Arthur cleared his throat. ‘Jack, I’m worried. If that girl’s gone missing, then it’s possible the same thing might have happened to Rose.’
It was precisely what had been going through Jack’s mind. But just then his bleeper went off and he had another call to make. I owe Douggie one, he told himself when he learned that another, smaller vessel seemed to be approaching the trawler which had been anchored since last night.
The various officers who made up the Joint Intelligence Cell would have watched and waited patiently. They knew the score. You could keep men and vessels under surveillance for months only to be disappointed in the end. This could be something big or nothing at all. They would continue to watch until they were certain one way or another.
Betrayed in Cornwall Page 8
