Buried in Cornwall

by Janie Bolitho

  Why, if the woman in the mine had fallen or been pushed, had she crawled further into the shaft instead of staying where she could see daylight above and where, if she called for help, she had the faintest chance of being heard? As in Jenny’s case, it had to be that she had been killed first then her body taken down there and hidden. Colleagues agreed with him when they had discussed the similarities here. The method was the same in both cases. Forensics could not be certain and would only go as far as to say that it was possible, but they suspected the damage to the skull was in excess of what might be expected from such a fall. Both women hit over the head, then the bodies hidden in such a manner that if they were discovered their deaths might seem accidental. The same person? How neat that would be. Scene-of-crime officers had been of little use in Jenny’s case. The evidence would be where she was killed, not on the edge of the sea. The laborious forensic task of examining cars and other forms of transport was about to begin. Everyone who had known Jenny was being reinterviewed. Someone had moved the body, but how and from where? Boat owners of every description were being questioned. Information obtained from the coastguards regarding tides and currents suggested she had been taken some distance out to sea and thrown overboard. Had Jennifer Manders fallen from the cliffs anywhere along the stretch where she was found her body would have been washed up farther down the coast.

  Jack sat at his desk, staring unseeingly at the work awaiting his attention. Not a fisherman or experienced seaman, he told himself. Whoever had tried to make it seem as if she had fallen and drowned had made a mistake.

  The necessary paperwork to bring in the suspects’ cars for examination, had they been unwilling to co-operate, had been issued. Jack was grateful that the advances in technology meant that, no matter how thoroughly a vehicle may have been cleaned, traces of blood and fibres would still be detectable. He realised he had been sitting there for over half an hour and hadn’t achieved a thing.

  Nick Pascoe had amended his statement the previous evening. He did not think anyone had seen him returning home after only fifteen minutes when he failed to catch up with the woman he believed was Jenny. Jack frowned. But Maddy Duke had said she had remained in her seat in the window until almost one a.m. It was where she always sat as she worked. Surely she would have noticed him? Any movement at that time of night in the quiet streets would have been noticeable even if his footsteps hadn’t echoed in the night air. He would ask her about it when he questioned her again later that day.

  By the time he left for home Jack’s handsome face was drawn with fatigue. The problem here was not too many alibis but a complete lack of them. Rose, like everyone else, was still under suspicion.

  By the weekend they had reached a hiatus. The frenzy of the initial inquiry was over, the repetitive slogging was to come. It would have been nice to talk to Rose, to discover her views, but for the moment he must avoid her. Maddy Duke had only repeated that she had not seen Pascoe return. It was beginning to look as if Jack’s feelings about him were correct. However, for the moment, they did not have enough evidence to arrest him. Tests were being done on his car. Jack was banking on the results of these to back up his theory. As for the unknown woman, every division in the country now had the details and would be going back through their records of missing persons.

  Dressing with care on Saturday morning Rose thought about what she had learnt from her own solicitor whom she had telephoned the day before. Apart from the purchase of the house and David’s probate she had had little need of Charles Kingsman’s services over the years although, having known David long before he did Rose, he seemed to feel obliged to keep an eye on his widow and got in touch every couple of months or so. Not learnt, Rose realised, I’d already worked it out. I needed it confirmed. She sprayed perfume on her neck and wrists and wondered how she could let Nick know, as tactfully as possible, that friendship was as much as she wanted from him. Flicking back her hair she grinned at herself in the mirror. My tact may be wasted if he’s not interested anyway, she thought.

  Nick was punctual and told her at once how lovely she looked, although she was not terribly flattered by the look of surprise on his face as he took in her appearance. She didn’t always look a mess. ‘Thanks,’ she said, looking down at the plain pale blue dress she had bought when away on a business trip with Barry. It had been one of her better buys. She picked up her raincoat. It wasn’t raining but it was the only outer garment which went with the dress.

  ‘New car?’ Rose asked, as he opened the door for her.

  ‘No. Hired.’ He paused. ‘The police still have mine.’

  ‘Oh.’ There was little she could say. Nick was obviously still very much a suspect. She wished she hadn’t asked and she tried to put from her mind the thought that she was possibly sitting next to Jenny’s killer. They drove the rest of the way in way silence.

  ‘Anywhere in particular you want to go?’ Nick asked as they joined the throngs of shoppers.

  ‘Not really. Shall we just stroll around and try not to get ourselves injured in the crush?’ The pavements were overflowing.

  They window-shopped for almost an hour, mooching around the alleyways and the markets, and stopping to admire the cathedral, which was built smack in the centre and towered overhead between the low-storey buildings. By twelve thirty they were still empty-handed and decided they might as well eat.

  There was a wine bar nearby and they were early enough to get a decent table before the real rush began. It was typical of its kind: bare floorboards, tables with wrought-iron legs and marble tops and the cutlery presented in a rolled paper serviette. But the menu was interesting and the list of wines extensive. ‘You choose,’ Nick said, referring to the wine. ‘You’ll have to drink most of it.’

  More people came in as they waited for their food. Rose ordered the Greek salad because she preferred to eat her main meal in the evening; Nick went for the more substantial pork and apricot stew with French bread.

  ‘It’s gone very quiet,’ Nick commented when they had taken their first few mouthfuls.

  Rose, a piece of pitta bread halfway to her mouth, looked around at the other chatting customers. ‘What has?’

  ‘The investigation.’

  ‘I’d hardly say that. Jack said they’re speaking to everyone again.’

  ‘Yes.’ He stared at something beyond Rose’s shoulder because he was embarrassed to look at her. ‘But we’ve all been to Camborne now and nothing’s happened. No arrest, I mean.’

  Rose wondered whether he was fishing, whether he believed because of her friendship with Inspector Pearce she would be privy to certain information. ‘They’re still testing the vehicles. I don’t get mine back until tomorrow.’ But Nick’s, she realised, had been the first to be taken. Was that relevant? How she would have loved to know what went on in those interviews. Had Jack questioned Daniel about his relationship with Jenny? Had Maddy been more forthcoming after the catharsis of her outburst? And did the confirmation from Charles Kingsman mean what she thought it might mean? For the moment she must think about Nick and the appropriate words to explain how she felt about him.

  ‘There’s that other woman, too. I gather they still don’t know who she is.’

  The turn in the conversation had dampened Rose’s mood and the carols playing in the background seemed to mock them. It was time to change the subject and talk of something more cheerful. Nick’s work, she decided, would be a starting place.

  ‘I haven’t done much, lately, what with not sleeping and the miserable weather. No, to be honest, I just haven’t felt like it. What about you?’

  ‘Plodding along.’ Rose speared an olive.

  ‘I still find that business out at the mine baffling. Haven’t the police come up with anything on that?’

  ‘I think they’ve got more important problems on their mind.’ This was not true. She knew that Jack believed there was a definite connection with what she had heard and what they had found. Rose was disappointed. As hard as she had tried
to change the subject Nick kept reverting to it. The day was not turning out the way she had anticipated, and they finished the meal in another uncomfortable silence. Rose was annoyed because Nick could have made more of an effort. She wondered why she had bothered to come and why he had bothered to ask her, and, more to the point, why she had not told him how their relationship stood.

  Deciding against coffee, Rose poured the last of the wine and lit a cigarette.

  ‘I didn’t know you smoked.’

  Nick’s tone was disapproving which infuriated Rose further. There were ashtrays on every table, it was not as if she was acting illegally. ‘Well, I do. Not often, and not many, but I do enjoy one after a meal. I’ll drink this then we’ll go.’ She indicated the inch or two of wine in her glass.

  ‘I’m sorry, Rose, I really don’t know what’s got into me. Everything I say comes out wrong. I wasn’t criticising.’

  You were, Rose thought but did not say. Instead she smiled. ‘It was a nice meal. Thank you.’ He had insisted beforehand that he paid.

  The streets seemed even busier as they left the wine bar. Between the buildings the sky was grey, not the greyness which promised rain but that of the half-light of an afternoon in late December. ‘It’s Stella’s party tomorrow. Are you going?’

  ‘She’s invited me,’ Nick replied.

  My God, Rose thought, hastening her footsteps. What’s wrong with a simple yes or no? He really is in a mood. ‘Nick, is something bothering you?’

  ‘No. Just the culmination of too many nights without proper sleep.’

  ‘Shall we go back now? There’s nothing I need to buy.’

  ‘If you like.’

  ‘I do like.’ Several people stopped. Rose was unaware how loudly she had spoken but she found Nick’s diffidence extremely infuriating.

  The journey back was as silent as the one coming and Rose was angry. There was nothing wrong with not speaking if it was a companionable silence, as she often experienced with Barry and Laura and even Jack. This was downright moodiness. Rose was about to tell Nick to drop her in St Ives to save himself the extra miles when he rested a hand on her thigh and gave it a quick squeeze. ‘I’ve behaved dreadfully. Forgive me. I just didn’t realise how much Jenny’s death had upset me. It’s taken a while to sink in. I keep thinking I’ll see her around the next corner.’

  Now it was Rose who felt ashamed. How could she have not realised what he must be going through? They had lived together for over three years and it was less than a week since Jenny’s body had been found. The man was grieving and she had expected him to entertain her. On top of that he probably felt guilty for having sent her away that night. ‘It’s hard, isn’t it? Look, let’s pretend today never happened and take it from there.’

  ‘You’re rather special, Rose Trevelyan. Don’t let anyone ever tell you otherwise.’

  With the change of mood Rose agreed to go back to Nick’s house where, he said, she could listen to some decent music and drink more wine if she wanted because she wasn’t driving. ‘I’ll abstain if you need a lift home. If you want to stay there’s a spare room.’

  Tactfully put, she thought. It leaves every option open. But in the end she drank only one glass of Chablis.

  Nick opened the door and switched on the fire, knowing that most people felt the cold more than himself. Having settled Rose into the corner of the settee he went to get the wine from the fridge. Rose leant back and listened to the swelling music of Beethoven. ‘Thanks.’ She took her glass which was misted with condensation and sipped the icy contents. ‘Delicious, it’s one of my favourites.’ Cynically she wondered if this was the classic seduction scene; if so, Nick was about to be disappointed. And the flickering flames were from a coal-effect electric fire rather than a real one. She placed the wine on the small table beside her from which Nick had removed a pile of papers. As she moved back something firm nudged her hip. She reached down and pulled a hard-backed book from between the side of the settee and the cushion. It was a novel – a new one, only recently published. She had read the reviews. Nick had told her he didn’t read novels. Always curious she opened it to read the blurb but before she could do so her eyes were drawn to the inscription. ‘To Jenny, a gift to thank you for last weekend.’ Rose’s face felt hot and she closed the book quickly but not before Nick had seen her.

  ‘I can explain,’ he said.

  ‘There’s no need. It’s none of my business.’ But he looked so shifty that Rose wanted to hear that explanation.

  Nick was on his feet. He slid one hand into the back pocket of his jeans and turned away, unable to look at her. His other hand raked through his hair.

  I like the way his hair lies across his collar, Rose thought, surprised at her objectivity, because she now knew for certain that what little had existed between them before no longer did.

  ‘She came here a few times. After she’d left, that is.’

  ‘Nick, I’d rather not hear this.’

  ‘There was nothing in it.’ He smiled. ‘She cooked me a meal. To make up for all those other times she didn’t, I expect.’

  ‘Nick, I’d like to go now. There’s no need for you to drive me, I’ll make my own way home.’ He’s lying, she thought. He’s looking me straight in the eye and lying to me. It was never really over between them. Not for one moment could she imagine Jenny turning up just to cook a meal because she had been remiss in this regard before. And if he had still been seeing her did that make him more of a suspect or less?

  ‘Please, don’t go. I thought we were getting on so well.’

  ‘I must. I have things to do.’ She picked up her raincoat, put it on then grabbed her handbag decisively. ‘Thanks again for the lunch.’

  ‘Rose?’

  ‘Bye, Nick.’ She tried to smile but her face felt stiff.

  Hurrying down the road she knew she was lucky it was still early, not much after three. There would be a choice of a train or a bus. No one stood at any of the stops she passed so she continued down into the main part of St Ives and up the hill towards the Malakof where the buses waited and which was adjacent to the railway station. The track was single-line, and the same train chugged back and forth. In the distance she saw it snake around the edge of the bay towards her. At least something was in her favour. She walked down the slope to the car-park and across it to the platform.

  When the train arrived she got on and sat down, pressing her hot face against the window. It misted with her breath. Only a couple of other passengers joined her and soon they were rattling over the track. In less than twenty minutes she was back in Penzance.

  They had walked a fair distance that morning but Rose needed air. She started making her way along by the harbour and on to the Promenade then decided to detour, to walk up into the town centre and see Barry. She longed for the honest solidity of him but recognised that she was using him. On the other hand, over the years he had tried to convince her that that was what friends were for, they were the people to whom you turned when you needed a sympathetic ear. Rose needed one then.

  Barry was delighted to see her although he expressed concern for her appearance. ‘You look a bit peaky, woman,’ he said.

  Rose smiled reassuringly. ‘I’m fine. Anyway, I decided, as it’s Saturday, I’m going to let you buy me a drink.’

  ‘How very kind of you.’ Barry thumbed his glasses back into place. There were red indentations on either side of his nose.

  Rose waited the forty-odd minutes until he closed the shop and cashed up the till. Outside he locked the door, pushed it to check it was safe, then, after half a dozen paces, turned back to check again. Rose shook her head. He always did it and had once driven from her place in the middle of the evening to double-check because he couldn’t remember having turned the key in the Chubb lock beneath the Yale.

  Together they walked up to the London Inn in Causewayhead. Ensconced in the back bar, Rose downed a glass of wine quickly. Her face burned. It was dark outside but some shops were still open. Thro
ugh the frosted glass window they saw shapes walking past. ‘I think I’m beginning to feel quite festive,’ Rose said.

  Barry studied her face. ‘I don’t think festive’s the right word, Rosie. Do you want me to get you a taxi?’

  ‘No.’ Suddenly she was serious. ‘I don’t want to go home just yet.’ Never in all the years she had lived in the house had she felt that way. It held nothing but happy memories.

  Barry stroked her cheek. It was an avuncular gesture. ‘What is it, Rose?’

  ‘For one thing I’m a suspect. I had to go back and answer the same questions all over again. Jack thinks I killed Jenny and that other woman.’

  ‘He thinks no such thing, and you know it. That’s not what’s really bothering you.’

  ‘No. You’re right. I don’t know what’s got into me. And it hurts to know my friends are under suspicion. I feel I ought to be able to tell if any one of them killed Jenny.’

  ‘Why should you when the police can’t?’

  ‘I know. It’s illogical. And there’s Nick.’

  ‘Ah. Yes. Nick.’ Barry studied the contents of his glass and uncharitably wished he was the guilty party.

  ‘It’s over, you see. Well, not that much was going on anyway. I won’t be seeing him again.’

  Barry’s spontaneous boyish grin left Rose in no doubt how he felt about that piece of news. ‘Can I get you another drink?’ She stood with her own glass in her hand.

  Barry noticed the blue dress, the one she had bought to wear out to dinner in London with him. With her flushed face she looked lovely. ‘One more then you’re going home. Order a taxi while you’re at the bar.’

  The taxi turned up promptly twenty minutes later. Arriving home she heard the telephone ringing as she unlocked the kitchen door and reached it seconds before the answering machine cut in.

  ‘It’s me. Nick. I’ve tried several times but I didn’t want to leave a message. I behaved disgracefully today. I hope you can forgive me. About Jenny, it was—’