In the kitchen which her husband was in the process of modernising she fetched two glasses and poured generous measures, taking a sip from one of them before returning to the living-room.
Alec wiped his eyes, blew his nose loudly and gave her a watery smile. With unexpected insight, Angela saw that he was confusing grief with guilt because he had largely ignored his daughter over the years. His mother had a lot to answer for: she had bound Alec to her with ties far stronger than apron strings and had prevented him from enjoying his marriage and loving Jenny.
Jenny was all right. From the little Angela knew of her she had recognised her as a survivor despite the lack of affection from her small family.
After the passage of years it was hard to recall how their affair had come about. Angela supposed the attraction had been there from the day Alex came to fit a new sink at her old place. She had made him tea, aware that he struggled to keep his eyes from the contours of her body in tight-fitting jeans. It had been summertime and her large breasts, out of proportion to her figure, had pushed against the restraints of her T-shirt. Angela was striking rather than beautiful. She was aware that her face was quite ordinary but her figure could have belonged to the models who posed for top-shelf magazines and her long, straight red hair caused other heads to turn. She hoped no one realised that she now coloured it because the natural red was fading.
At forty-one and over a decade younger than Alec she still retained a carefree attitude to life. But only when her first marriage had ended had she really begun to enjoy life. Freed from the boredom of housekeeping and entertaining John’s rather dry friends and their dull wives – whom, she suspected, he cultivated for these qualities because they provided a foil for his own charm and exuberance – she had started many projects, none of which had lasted. Finally she had taken a part-time job in a baker’s where she still worked. Around the house she did as little as possible and spent the afternoons with friends or, in the summer, on the beach.
Alec was all that she wanted: a mixture of father, mother and lover. He could cook, he was tidy, far tidier than herself, and he was skilled with his hands which meant he could alter or repair anything in the house. Despite his rather stern demeanour and his lack of experience with women he was a good lover.
Watching him fighting back tears she felt a momentary disgust. It weakened him in her eyes because what she required from him was his particular maleness. She had no idea that what had attracted him was not so much her looks but her similarity to Agnes Manders, his mother. Angela was, without being aware of it, the head of the household and always managed to get her own way.
The police had come to break the news that Jenny was dead but they would be returning once Alec had had time to accept it. There were questions they needed to ask. Angela could not imagine her stepdaughter being stupid enough to go wandering over the cliffs at night, but maybe she had been drunk, maybe she was following in her mother’s footsteps.
Alec had hardly tasted his drink but Angela’s glass was empty. She refilled it in the kitchen hoping that he wouldn’t notice. Running a finger over the smooth wood of the cupboards he had built for her she realised there would soon be no trace of the woman who had ruled this house for so many years once this last room had been modernised.
She frowned. Renata Manders had been a drinker. But had she been driven to it? If what she had heard about Agnes Manders was correct then it would not surprise her. But what am I doing now? she wondered as she stared at the dark gold liquid in her glass. Was there something about Alec that made women want to drink? It was a ridiculous idea, brought on by the shock she had received upon hearing of Jenny’s death. But, as she stood in the still unfinished kitchen, she asked herself why, when they had both been free agents, she had gone along with his desire to keep their relationship a secret for so many years. For an independent woman it had been a strange way to behave. ‘Is his attraction that strong?’ she whispered. It was. She had never tired of his muscular body and his habit of saying little but thinking much. There was also the anomaly that, although he possessed an animal-like strength, it was Angela who was in control.
Well, she was his wife now and nothing could alter that. And she did not regret it either. Once the police had been back and the funeral was over life would revert to normal. They had nothing to fear.
Alec was not an intellectual man, he acted instinctively and only thought about what he had done afterwards. He did not know why he was crying, only that he was. His only child was dead but he hadn’t loved her because he hadn’t really known her. Odd, he thought, that he had not cried when his mother had died. But then, she would not have expected him to.
He had had no dealings with the police before and therefore no idea how they worked. Their questions would be answered, although there was little he could tell them about Jenny, and Angela, who had gone to Truro with a friend to see a film, did not know about Jenny’s recent visit to the house. No one knew and there was no reason for them to do so. What had been discussed between father and daughter concerned them alone and the third party involved lived too far away for any connection to be made. He gulped at the brandy. It burned unpleasantly but it did make him feel better.
Angela returned, a little flushed, her eyes over-bright. She sat beside him and took his hand in hers.
‘I’m all right now,’ he said. ‘In fact, I think I’ll plumb in the washing-machine.’
Later that Monday night Angela gasped in surprise when Alec grabbed her before she was undressed and made love to her. It was as if she wasn’t there. Normally their couplings were beneath the sheet and the duvet which had replaced Agnes Manders’ scratchy blankets. Afterwards, he seemed at peace, as if by that one almost violent action he had got his daughter’s death out of his system.
‘Good evening, Inspector. Do come in.’ Stella Jackson held open the plate glass door of the gallery, which had been closed for several hours. She ignored the sergeant at his side. Outside the Christmas lights glittered in the rain and were echoed in a much smaller way by the string of fairy lights on the minute tree in the corner of Stella’s window. It was a sop to the season and did not detract from the carefully arranged display of her work. ‘Shall we go upstairs? It’s more comfortable.’ The heating in the gallery went off at five thirty and it was chilly.
Jack and his colleague followed the streamlined figure, tonight dressed entirely in black, up the spiral staircase. Stella Jackson reminded him of a sleek cat; a wild cat, he amended, although he could not say why the adjective had come to mind. Daniel Wright, the woman’s husband, appeared in the doorway of the lounge as they approached. The room took Jack by surprise with its tasteful uniqueness. He received another surprise when Daniel moved away and he saw the small figure of a woman sitting on the striped settee.
‘This is Maddy Duke,’ Stella said. ‘Maddy, Inspector Pearce and, er …?’
‘Detective Sergeant Green,’ Jack told her, thinking they might be able to kill two birds with one stone. Madeleine Duke was, apart from the killer, the last person to have set eyes on Jennifer Manders. As far as they knew. No one had come forward in response to the television and radio broadcasts but only hours had passed since the announcement. ‘I know someone spoke to you at the time of Miss Manders’ disappearance but I’m afraid it’s necessary for us to go over the last time that you saw her again. I’m sure you’re already aware of the news?’ Maybe with three witnesses present one of them might jog another’s memory. Some small fact, some forgotten line of dialogue could make all the difference.
‘Yes. Of course we know. In a community this size …’ Stella spread her hands. There was no need to finish the sentence. ‘Sit down, Daniel, for goodness sake,’ she snapped.
Jack observed her without seeming to. There were undercurrents here – had there been some disagreement between husband and wife? Was something troubling them? However, Maddy Duke appeared to be at ease so he had to assume the couple had not been in the middle of a blazing row immediately prior to
their arrival.
The half-hour spent in the room over the gallery proved to be a waste of time. Jennifer Manders’ three friends merely repeated what they had said when questioned about her disappearance; Stella and Daniel confirmed that she had been one of the last to leave. She had left alone and they had not noticed which direction she had taken. They had not seen her since. Stella, exhausted, had gone straight to bed and Daniel had made a half-hearted attempt at clearing up and followed her fifteen minutes later. Maddy had gone home earlier. She had not seen Jenny head towards Nick’s place but had later observed her running down the hill, in a distressed state. Assuming she had come from Nick’s she had telephoned to see if everything was all right. That was the last time she had seen Jenny. But later, although she did not say so, she had seen Nick walking in the same direction.
Jack wondered why Maddy was blushing. Was it the mention of Nick Pascoe’s name? She had invited him for a meal, he recalled. Was he a womaniser? If so, he felt sorry for Rose. He thanked them for their time and noted their relief when he left. But he was far from satisfied. One or all of them were holding out on him.
It was just after nine on Tuesday morning when DS Green and a WPC turned up on Rose’s doorstep. She heard the bell and frowned. The front door meant business. She struggled to pull it open, breaking a hail in the process, and wished she wasn’t wearing her working clothes when she saw who her visitors were. She could hardly make a good impression in tattered jeans and a paint-splashed jumper. They refused the offer of coffee, which did not deter Rose from pouring one for herself before she joined them in the sitting-room where she had shown them.
It was soon established how long and how well she had known Jenny, which was no more than a few months and hardly at all.
‘Mrs Trevelyan, it is our understanding that you’ve been seeing Nicholas Pascoe. Were you aware he had been in a longstanding relationship with Miss Manders?’
‘Yes, I was.’
‘And that, recently, she decided she wanted this relationship to resume?’
‘Yes.’
‘I see. How did you feel about that?’
‘I didn’t think much about it, really. Nick said it was over and that he wasn’t interested in renewing it.’
‘And you believed him?’
‘I had no reason not to. Besides, although I see him, as you put it, he’s no more than a friend.’ But Rose got the feeling that they did not believe her.
‘Forgive my asking, but were you jealous of Miss Manders?’
Rose stared at the detective, her eyes wide. Then she laughed but wished she hadn’t. She was being too flippant. ‘Of course not. I liked her, in fact. Anyway, I knew their affair was over. Other people confirmed it, too.’
‘You needed confirmation?’
Rose was annoyed. Sergeant Green was no fool but he was beginning to make her look one. ‘No, I didn’t actually ask anyone, it just came up in conversation. Gossip, if you like.’
‘Yet on the night Miss Jackson held her preview Miss Manders was present, along with Mr Pascoe, and later she turned up at his house. They were obviously still friends.’ Before Rose could speak he continued, ‘When you left the gallery where did you go?’
‘I came straight home.’
‘And later Mr Pascoe telephoned. Did you know Miss Manders was with him at the time?’
‘No. Not then.’ Rose closed her mouth. Not then? Not at all, she thought. He certainly hadn’t mentioned it. But she had heard the knock on the door and subconsciously registered that it was probably Jenny. But why? Rose frowned in concentration.
Because of the flirtatious way in which Jenny had been behaving at the gallery, she realised.
DS Green was relentless. ‘Who might have seen you after you left St Ives?’
‘No one. I told you, I came straight home.’
‘So we only have your word for it that you didn’t go out again that night after you received the telephone call.’ It was a statement.
‘Yes, you only have my word for it,’ she replied with resignation.
DS Green leant back in his chair. It was his colleague’s turn now. WPC Sanderson had a flawless face with a mask-like expression. Her looks were classic but cold. ‘Miss Manders was young and beautiful – some competition, I’d say.’
Rose’s mouth fell open. She was speechless. She had never thought in those terms. More so than ever she wished she looked smarter. Surely she wasn’t as bad as all that?
‘All right, Mrs Trevelyan, let’s move on to those screams you claimed to have heard. What were you doing out at the mine?’
‘Painting.’ Rose knew that whatever she said she would end up under suspicion.
‘Inspector Pearce thinks there might be a connection between the death of Miss Manders and the body recovered from the mine. And, for whatever reason, you seem to have become involved with both of these women.’
‘But I’m not. I had no idea there was a body there. How could I have done?’
‘Perhaps the screams were in your imagination. Perhaps it was your way of telling us we ought to investigate.’
‘That’s a bloody stupid theory.’ She was angry. How dare Jack have allowed this situation to have arisen. Hadn’t he told her he would interview her himself?
WPC Sanderson raised her eyebrows sardonically. Rose thought her too smug for her own good. ‘Maybe someone did know what was down there and the screams were meant to scare me away. Look, I can’t explain why you didn’t find anybody there at the scene but I definitely heard them. Could they have been recorded?’ Rose asked doubtfully.
Her question was ignored. ‘When did you move here?’
Rose was shaken. ‘About twenty-eight years ago,’ she said.
WPG Sanderson stood and gestured for her colleague to do the same. Her cat-like smile was explicit in its meaning. Rose had been around when the woman in the mine shaft had died. ‘Thank you, Mrs Trevelyan, that’ll be all for now.’ DS Green nodded a farewell as his colleague followed him out into the hall. Rose let him open the front door himself.
‘Right! Work,’ she said with determination but before she could leave the house Nick telephoned.
‘God, Rose, what a mess. It seems I’m a suspect.’
‘Well; don’t think you’re so special. So am I.’
‘You?’ He started to laugh then realised just why she might be considered so.
‘Older, jealous woman removes the obstacle to her happiness,’ she said bitterly.
Nick was uncertain exactly what she meant by this. Did she feel more for him than her manner suggested? Did she want him that much? ‘I’m sure they don’t …’
‘They do. Nick, when exactly did Jenny turn up at your place that night?’ Rose suddenly realised she had, if not lied, then been economical with the truth. She did not know that Jenny had been there when Nick telephoned, she had, she realised, only guessed as much.
‘After the preview. I told you.’
‘Before or after you rang me?’
‘Hey, what is this? As we were talking, actually. I wasn’t expecting her. Why do you want to know?’
‘No reason, really. Just curiosity.’
‘Anyway, I know you’re busy but is there any chance …?’
‘No, Nick. Let’s leave it until Saturday as arranged.’
‘Okay. You’re the boss. I’ll see you then.’
His disappointment sounded genuine but Rose did have other things to do. Work, for a start, and she needed time to think about all that had occurred over the past few days.
She got into the car and found herself heading towards St Ives. She could not stop thinking that it was Nick who had had the perfect opportunity of following Jenny after she had left his place. Or Stella, she thought. But no, not Stella. Maybe she really had gone to bed. She had looked very tired.
It was another fine day, but chilly. Rose’s hair, left loose, flew around her face when she got out of the car. In her uniform of jeans, shirt, sweatshirt and waxed jacket she made he
r way towards what was locally called the island although it was joined to the mainland. Her route took her past Stella’s gallery.
Stella was behind the counter, some paperwork spread out in front of her. Daniel, dressed smartly in trousers, shirt, jacket and tie, was on the telephone. Both looked pale, as if they had not slept much.
‘Rose. Nice to see you.’ Stella looked up when the door opened. Her eyes shifted to the canvas bag over Rose’s shoulder. ‘Are you over here to work?’
‘Yes.’
‘I thought you’d be more adventurous. Absolutely everyone’s had a bash at painting St Ives.’
Rose ignored the comment. ‘Have the police been to see you?’
‘Yes. Last night. We weren’t able to be much help, I’m afraid. Do you get the feeling they think someone killed her? Perhaps it was a lover. She wasn’t too fussy when it came to men.’
Shocked at such callousness so soon after Jenny’s death, Rose was still aware of the odd look which was exchanged between husband and wife. The tell-tale flush spreading along Daniel’s high cheekbones confirmed what Rose already suspected. Jenny had had an affair with Daniel Wright. Did Jack know? Well, it’s up to him to find out, she thought, she was in enough trouble as it was. And did Jack know that Stella went walking after previews? No wonder the pair of them appeared anxious, she thought, if they weren’t together it gives them both a motive: Stella’s being jealousy, Daniel’s the threat of being found out. It was crazy to be suspecting her friends, but perhaps no more crazy than the police suspecting her.
‘Rose? I said, would you like a coffee?’
‘Oh, no thanks, Stella, I’ve got a flask. I just called in as I was passing.’ What’s happening to me, she thought as she left the gallery. It’s as if I don’t trust anyone. She blamed it on the circumstances. Murder was ugly and its repercussions spread like ripples in widening circles of doubt and suspicion.
Buried in Cornwall Page 9
