Buried in Cornwall

by Janie Bolitho

  ‘Please, Nick. I don’t want to hear any more about Jenny.’

  ‘Can I see you tomorrow?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘But you’ll still come to Stella’s?’

  ‘There’s no reason for me not to.’ I can be as evasive as you, she thought.

  ‘Good. Until then.’

  ‘Nick, I’d rather you didn’t ring me any more. I don’t need complications in my life at the moment. Goodbye.’ Rose replaced the receiver before he had a chance to argue.

  In the morning Rose sat at the kitchen table sipping coffee and nibbling at a piece of toast. It was 23rd December, the day of Stella’s party. The coffee tasted strange and it hurt to swallow. By mid-morning her head was thumping and she felt sore all over. Her limbs felt heavy and it was an effort to stand as she dialled Stella’s number to make her apologies. She was in no state to attend a party. Having swallowed two aspirins and filled a jug with fruit juice, Rose took herself to bed with a hot water bottle. For most of that day and long into the night she sweated out a dose of flu, not caring whether Nick thought it was an excuse to avoid him.

  Too weak to do more than sit and read she spent a miserable Christmas Eve. Laura rang and offered to come over and cheer her up but Rose said she preferred to be on her own and the last thing Laura needed was to catch her germs when her whole family was there.

  Luckily the bug was short-lived and she awoke on Christmas morning feeling better. After a leisurely breakfast, accompanied by a giant crossword she had saved for the occasion, she made a couple of telephone calls. Barry was delighted with his penholder and Laura with her ear-rings. ‘It sounds like pandemonium,’ Rose commented. In the background she could hear laughter and male voices and the high-pitched ones of excited children.

  ‘It is. Must go, someone’s calling me. Thanks, Rose. Happy Christmas,’ Laura said.

  At midday she uncorked a bottle of champagne and, an hour later, ate a lunch of smoked salmon and a ready-cooked chicken with salad. It was the sort of simple meal she most enjoyed and involved little effort or washing-up. She finished with ground coffee and a couple of the handmade chocolates Barry had given her. Having guessed what was in the inexpertly wrapped box, she had already opened it. The rest of her presents she saved until after lunch.

  From her mother was a beautiful tan shawl threaded with gold, and the usual cheque from her father who was never sure what, to buy his adult daughter. Her parents had always sent separate gifts.

  ‘I don’t believe it.’ Rose shook her head. Laura had given her ear-rings almost identical to the ones she had bought for Laura; made of silver filigree with an amber stone, they were the work of a local craftsman. Still, their tastes had always been similar.

  With one of her new novels and the last glass of champagne, Rose settled down on the settee. There had been no hardship in spending the day alone. In fact, she had thoroughly enjoyed it.

  Maddy Duke spent Boxing Day morning in the few feet which served as her kitchen. She gave a brief thought to the police who would be working over the holidays and realised how other people’s tragedies took second place at such times of the year. With her preparations well advanced and the afternoon to look forward to, it was as if Jenny Manders had never been.

  When everything was ready she put on the green velvet dress she had found in a charity shop. It had a lace collar like a child’s party frock but it suited her. She untied her hair and brushed it until it crackled with static then stepped into her lace-up ankle boots and waited nervously for her guests to arrive.

  They all seemed to come at the same time but it pleased her to see them mingling and chatting amicably, all suspicions temporarily put on hold.

  ‘I’m glad you could make it,’ Maddy said to Rose, kissing her cheek. Her eyes glowed with gratitude. Rose Trevelyan had enabled her to express all that she had bottled up for so long. ‘This is Peter Dawson,’ she added with a touch of pride.

  ‘I admire your work,’ Rose said, which was true, although she preferred representational art over abstract.

  ‘Thank you. From what I hear you’re no slouch yourself.’ Rose had not known what to expect, but certainly not this sophisticated, urbane man in his mid to late fifties. ‘I have to admit I don’t know your work,’ he added.

  You will, Rose thought, but did not say, hoping that Maddy’s interest in Peter would divert her away from Nick who, she suspected, was not the stable person Maddy required.

  ‘Jenny loved parties,’ Maddy said, blushing because she wished she hadn’t. Now was not the time to bring up her name.

  Rose looked up and happened to see Nick across the room engaged in conversation with Stella. He nodded in her direction, his face grim, then, making one last comment, left Stella and approached her. ‘Are you feeling better?’

  ‘Yes, thanks. It was one of those twenty-four hour things.’

  ‘I didn’t see you there, Rose. You look lovely.’ Stella had joined them.

  ‘Thank you.’ She had hoped she would not be over-dressed in a velvet skirt and a slinky blouse. Next to Stella, of course, no one would appear to be so. Today the ensemble was a black satin trouser suit enlivened by a chain belt which dipped over her narrow hips and lots of chunky costume jewellery.

  ‘No wonder you got ill, with all that’s been going on. You were probably run down. And the police. Are they leaving you alone now?’

  ‘Yes. Why should they be doing otherwise?’

  ‘Honestly, Rose, it stands to reason. You were the one who led them to that unfortunate girl. Ah, excuse me, I must have a word with someone.’

  Rose watched her walk across the room to a couple she did not know. Too late Stella had seen her mistake and knew that Rose had seen it too. ‘Nick, was it you who mentioned my idiotic panicking at the mine to Stella?’ Rose had not doubted that everyone would know eventually but a thought had crossed her mind and she was interested to know exactly when Stella had heard.

  ‘No. There was no reason to. Why?’

  ‘I just wondered.’

  Maddy had been watching this interaction with interest. Unable to paint herself, she still had a genuine interest in art and all its forms. And since that embarrassing encounter with Nick and what had followed with Rose, she had begun to see the man she thought she had been in love with in a different light. ‘I hear you’ve finished the engine house. I’d love to see it.’

  ‘Then you must come over one day.’

  ‘Really? Thanks.’

  Peter Dawson had not moved away. He was fascinated by the two women, who seemed to share some secret understanding.

  ‘I wonder what it’d look like if you painted it again?’ Maddy continued.

  Rose frowned her lack of comprehension.

  ‘I mean now. After what’s happened. Would it affect your view of the place? I suppose what I’m trying to say is how much of what an artist sees is what’s really there and how much depends on other stimuli?’

  It was an interesting point. ‘I think moods can affect the way you work. A scene might well come out differently if you painted it twice; once in a happy frame of mind and again when depressed. It would reflect more in the colours than anything else, I think.’ How would that landscape look, Rose wondered, knowing what I know now? ‘It’s a good idea, Maddy. I just might try it again, although obviously from a different perspective. Perhaps even tomorrow.’ Fully aware of the people who were listening and those who were not, she thought this might be one way to find out what was going on. But it was a good idea. Painted from the opposite side and with the hills in the background instead of the engine house outlined against the sky, it would be completely different. Jack’s words unheeded, Rose did not stop to think that she might be putting herself in danger, that if someone who thought she knew too much was in the room then she would have given them the perfect opportunity to remove her from the scene.

  The party was beginning to break up when Rose’s taxi arrived at five. The food had been eaten and enough drink consumed and conv
ersations were beginning to flag. Only the few, like Rose, who had spent a quiet Christmas Day had the stamina to continue. But Rose had had enough socialising and was ready to leave. She thanked Maddy and said her goodbyes.

  Climbing into the front seat of the taxi, the better to gossip with the driver, she realised she had been a coward. She had intended to treat Nick normally but all she had done was to avoid him.

  Having met the famous, or possibly infamous, Peter Dawson, Rose mentioned this to the driver, who was impressed. ‘I thought he was virtually a hermit,’ he commented.

  ‘Reclusive, certainly, but he does come out and show his face now and again. In fact, he’s coming to my New Year’s Eve party.’

  ‘We are moving up in the world. I take it you’re going straight home?’

  ‘Yes. Didn’t I say?’

  ‘No. And I’m not a mind reader. Here, did you know the girl who was killed?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Ah. I’m sorry, Rose.’

  After that there was no more conversation until they reached the bottom of her drive. Rose wished he hadn’t mentioned Jenny.

  The house was warm and welcoming and pleasantly quiet after the noise of the party. The light on the answering machine glowed steadily. There were no messages.

  Rose kicked off her high-heeled shoes and switched on the television. An hour of viewing which required no thought would be welcome. She sat, her legs tucked beneath her, in the corner of the settee, her eyes on the screen. Later, she was unable to recall the programme that was on. All she could think about was Jenny and her friends.

  Aware that Stella and Daniel, Nick, Maddy and Peter Dawson had all heard her say she intended going out to the mine again, she was not sure if she actually had the nerve to do so. And, more to the point, did she have the nerve to go back to St Ives and ask the questions that were worrying away at the back of her mind?

  But where to start? She did not have a counterpart to Doreen Clarke there who knew everyone and all their business. Unless, she thought, she could rely on Maddy who saw all and said little.

  CHAPTER NINE

  There had been a meeting between Jack Pearce, his chief inspector and the superintendent and the conclusion drawn from it was that Jack’s theory was more than worth a try. The forensic tests were still under way and the results not expected for several days. And now the Met was involved. Elimination, they said, was often as vital as hard evidence, and that was where the London lot could help them.

  Over the holiday period only a skeleton forensic team were on duty in the lab they used. This would slow things down further but the results were useless unless they were accurate.

  27th December. There were four days until Rose’s party. Jack had optimistically told himself that at least one of the cases might be solved by then and he would be free to attend.

  All Jack’s hopes were now pinned on forensic evidence, but he knew how long he’d have to wait for it.

  Several divisions had already come back with negative faxes regarding the identity of the first victim but there were still many to go. The reinterviewing of the suspects had provided little that was new except that it was now certain that Daniel Wright had had an affair with Jenny and his wife had known about it. Questioned individually, each had admitted it. The affair had been over for some time and although it gave them each a motive Jack thought it more likely that if Stella had been insanely jealous she would have acted immediately and if Daniel had been afraid of being found out he would not have confessed voluntarily. Still, sometimes emotions could simmer beneath the surface before they finally erupted.

  Rose had been wrong, it seemed. Stella and Daniel swore they had been together after the preview. He did not want them to be guilty; he wanted Nick Pascoe to be the culprit because he was the most likely candidate and for a reason to which he did not care to admit. But that still leaves the problem of the first woman, he realised, then cursed for the lack of available evidence.

  ‘I’ll do it.’ Rose stood in her sitting-room window, much as she did every morning of her life. Having decided to let the weather dictate her movements she had no option but to go ahead. But this time I’ll be prepared, she told herself. She was almost certain she knew who was trying to frighten her and, if this assumption was correct, then it was not the same person who had killed Jennifer Manders, in which case she would not be in any real danger.

  A flawless blue sky stretched into the distance and the water in the bay sparkled beneath it. Many fishermen were heading out to sea. Having landed just before Christmas they could not afford to waste good weather now.

  Her resolve unwavering, Rose set off with her painting equipment.

  In jeans, sweatshirt and a body warmer the chill in the air ought not to penetrate. And there was always her waxed jacket which lived on the back seat of the car. Her hair was tied back firmly to prevent it blowing forward on to her palette which she tended to hold high up and close to her body. As she drove she wondered if someone would be there ahead of her.

  She parked and got out of the car. There was no one in sight and nothing different about the place yet Rose felt uneasy. She walked around the engine house, her hand shielding her eyes from the low winter sun as she planned from which angle to paint it. Glancing back, she checked how far away the car was if she needed to get to it in a hurry. It was unlocked. There would be no fumbling with the key.

  The rocks cast strange shadows, but Rose was not afraid of shadows. She took out a sketchpad and soft pencil and drew a few lines. After forty minutes nothing had happened and only once had she been disturbed by a rustling in the undergrowth, which was too low to contain anything other than wildlife. Why then was she suddenly afraid? The hairs on the nape of her neck prickled. She turned her head slowly. There was nothing to see her but the rolling countryside, the boulders and the bracken and a crow wheeling in the sky. Had she heard someone approaching? People knew where she was, would know where to look if anything happened to her, but they were the wrong people and by that time it would be too late. How stupid she was to have come. Breathing deeply, she steadied herself. If she was in danger it was no good falling apart, she must be prepared. The winter sun was now lower still and made her squint. It was time to go home. She stood and stretched. More time had passed than she realised. Nothing was going to happen now.

  ‘Rose?’ The voice reverberated in the thin air.

  ‘Jesus!’ Instantly she froze. Her body was rigid, every muscle tense. Unable to move, she was close to hysteria. Then, just as quickly, her limbs took on a strange quality of fluidity as if they had turned from steel to blancmange. Adrenalin pumped through her veins and dictated movement. With a dry mouth and thudding heart she grabbed her belongings and ran towards the car, flinging everything in ahead of her haphazardly.

  There was a rustling and someone grabbed her arm. She screamed. This time it was her own voice which echoed in the still air.

  ‘My God, woman! I’m not that bad.’

  It was seconds before she realised that Peter Dawson, who had jumped back in alarm, was standing a yard or so away, staring at her as if she was mad – which, indeed, she felt she was at that moment. What was he doing there? But he couldn’t have been the one to frighten her previously because they had not met until Maddy’s get-together. Until that day he had probably never heard of her. Rose saw the utter stupidity in having gone there alone. She took a deep breath. Her heart was pounding so loudly that she thought Peter must hear it too.

  ‘Okay, so why so terrified?’ He stood with his arms folded revealing the threadbare elbows of his mustard-coloured needle-cord jacket.

  Rose shook her head. Fright had rendered her speechless.

  ‘Do you want to walk for a minute to steady your nerves, or would you rather sit down?’

  ‘Sit,’ Rose managed to say.

  ‘Let me take your arm.’ This time he gave her warning. His touch was gentle as he led her to an outcrop of rock, smooth enough upon which to sit. ‘What happened? The mi
nute I called your name you took off as if the devil himself was after you.’

  ‘It was your fault. I didn’t see you. You scared the living daylights out of me.’ She was trembling from head to foot.

  ‘Look, I don’t think you’re up to talking yet. Why don’t we find a pub and I’ll buy you a drink, or coffee, or whatever you want.’

  ‘Thank you.’ It sounded like a good idea. And at least there would be other people around. Then it struck her. ‘How did you get here? Where did you come from?’

  ‘I drove, of course. How else? And there’s another way in over there.’ Peter pointed. Rose, peering into the distance, saw only deep shadows and realised why she had not seen him. ‘I called at your place first hoping to change your mind about coming out here. I may not intermingle much but I still hear what goes on. It was a stupid risk to take. I wanted to dissuade you.’

  Rose looked around and Peter interpreted her bewilderment. ‘I’m parked out on the verge. I know you can see the engine house from the road but I had no idea there was access to it by car. I imagined it would’ve been fenced off for safety reasons. Anyway, you follow me. I’ll go slowly. Okay?’

  He escorted her back to the car and walked on ahead to his own, which was some way away – this explained why Rose had not been disturbed by the sound of its engine, But her instincts had been working overtime. She had known there was someone there. She drove automatically, letting Peter set the pace.

  They came to the St Ives junction where Rose assumed Peter would indicate to turn off but he continued on past it. Who cares? She thought, the nearer home for me the better. The roads were quiet in that no man’s land of post-Christmas and pre-New Year. A cattle truck lumbered towards them, the driver’s visor down against the increasingly lowering sun. In the distance the purple clouds of evening were already building up. On they went, Rose keeping a respectable distance behind Peter although she could have driven faster now. They were in Penzance before he stopped, parking on the sea front where couples and family groups strolled and children rode their new bikes or sailed past on rollerblades. The tide was in and was slapping against the sea wall with a gentle suction. Droplets of spray flew over the railings. Rose locked the car and inhaled deeply, breathing away the last of her fear, calm enough now to appreciate the sharp, clean air in her lungs.