Trevega House

by Will North

  “Sure. It’s right off the square. Manager’s John Roberts. His boy and me, we were at school together.”

  “GIVE ME A moment, will you?” Morgan said quietly when they entered the store. “I need to look around.”

  “Supermarket” was a big word for the little store: three grocery-packed aisles and a refrigerated meat case in the back, but it had most of life’s necessities and a friendly feel. While Sennen chatted up the older lady at the register and asked her to summon the manager, Morgan stalked the aisles until she found what she was looking for in the tiny housewares section: a stack of yellow and black ZIP Odourless Firelighter cartons.

  “Inspector Davies? This is Mr. Roberts, the manager,” Sennen said behind her.

  She was expecting a sort of balding, paunchy shopkeeper. She was wrong. The man was stocky and muscled, with pale blue eyes and steel gray hair trimmed close to the skull.

  “Mr. Roberts is also ex-Culdrose: served in the first Iraq War alongside the Americans.”

  Roberts reached out a hand: “How may I help you and David, Inspector?”

  “Honored to meet you. Do you have CCTV cameras in the store, Mr. Roberts?”

  “Of course. Sadly, we have to these days. Corporate policy…not that we ever see much theft in a place like this where everyone is known.”

  “Would your cameras reach this aisle?” She looked around and could see none.

  “I’m afraid not. We have only three: one watching the wine and liquor aisle, one the door, and one the register.”

  “How long do you save these videos?”

  “Generally, unless there is some incident, which is never, not more than a month.”

  “If I gave you a date a few weeks ago, would you be willing to examine the videos if I told you what to look for? It’s a criminal case.”

  “Well of course!”

  “Do you have the authority to release those videos?”

  Roberts shook his head. “Never had need to ask but I don’t care a whit about that. If it is a criminal case, and our little community is involved, I’ll assume the authority, come what may from corporate.” He grinned: “Let them fire me and try to get someone else willing to live way down here.”

  Morgan nodded and gave him the date of the fire at Trevean. “I’m looking for anyone who bought these ZIP firestarters,” she said, pointing to the shelf, “anytime a week or two before.”

  “Very popular they are around here. Lots of folks still with coal fireplaces. Sometimes that’s their only heat source; a bit behind we are down here. But sure, I’ll look into it. Any suggestions about who or what I should look for?”

  “Caucasian male. Early middle age, we think. Not someone who had been a long-term customer, not someone you would perhaps even recognize.” She gave him her card.

  “It’s a tall order, I must say. So many strangers this time of year. But I’ll do my best.”

  “All we can ask, sir.” She extended her hand. “We shall be most grateful. It is possible someone we know may be in mortal danger. We’re trying to head that off.”

  Roberts nodded.

  Outside the shop, Morgan said, “It’s time I headed back north, David. Keep us informed as you continue searching. Stay in touch with PC Novak up in St. Ives. He’s a good man, completely reliable.”

  “Reckon you’re right. Met him at a meeting in Camborne. Good chap.”

  “I am grateful for your help. Thank you for welcoming me to your patch.”

  “Not much of a patch now we have no police office down here…”

  DETECTIVE CONSTABLE TERRY Bates sat on a threadbare, unstable wheeled office chair at a small table in the cramped St. Ives police station above the harbor on Dove Street. It was early Wednesday morning. Like everything else in the old town of St. Ives, the building was granite-built, weathered, but solid. On the other hand, the upstairs interior of the police office had been rather brutally modernized at some point with white sheetrock walls, worn office furniture and filing cabinets, and overhead blue-white fluorescent lights so bright she wished she had sunglasses. Two small, deep set windows peered out across the old port. The St. Ives harbor was protected from the Atlantic by a high stone jetty tipped by a small, rusting, white lighthouse. Brightly painted coastal fishing boats lay this way and that on the sandy harbor bottom. They’d soon be bobbing again; the tide already was slinking in around the end of the jetty.

  “As you might imagine, Terry, St. Ives has dozens of overnight accommodations: B&Bs, guest houses, a few nice hotels,” PC Novak explained.

  “And?”

  “And I have only three Police Community Support Officers—that’s all there is apart from myself, that’s my entire staff. I am the only constable here. Used to be different, but not anymore. I have asked my people to call or visit bed and breakfast and guest houses here enquiring after this Rhys-Jones person. They’re using Tourist Office listings. There are many such places, most of them rather drab, and they rise around the harbor all the way east to Carbis Bay.

  “But I have been thinking about this Rhys-Jones chap. You’ve described him as coming from money, yes? If he’s in St. Ives I can’t see him holed up in some dingy Victorian guesthouse or B&B with a saggy bed, nylon sheets, and some aging landlady bringing weak tea and greasy eggs and bacon in the morning. I’m thinking he’d be at a better hotel, of which there are just a few in and about the town. That’s where I myself have started—though, I confess, without much luck yet. We don’t even know what name he’s using.”

  “I think your theory is clever, Adam. How far have you got?”

  “I’ve checked, in person, at Tregonna Castle, the Paradise Valley Hotel, and a recently refurbished place overlooking the harbor, Pedn Olva. Nothing yet, I’m afraid.”

  The office phone rang.

  “St. Ives police station…how may we help?”

  Terry heard a loud voice shouting from Novak’s receiver and recognized it immediately. “Right. Of course!” Novak replied. “She’s right here, Inspector.” He passed the phone to Terry: “Davies,” he whispered.

  Twenty-Four

  “LOOK FOR AN Italian!” Morgan barked into the phone.

  “Pardon?”

  “An Italian! Thick accent!”

  “Why, if I might ask?”

  “Because I said so! And because the Co-Op supermarket manager in St. Just stayed up all night, bless his heart, studying his closed-circuit videos. He’s identified a buyer of the firestarters. The timing is perfect: just the day before the cottage was burned. The manager’s grown daughter was the cashier that day and says this customer was a stranger: handsome, middle-aged, courtly, and Italian. Almost no English. She had to help him with the currency, apparently. She was charmed, of course, the silly cow. But at least she remembered.”

  “And this is a lead because…?”

  “Jesus, Terry, where the hell’s Jeremy Rhys-Jones spent the last year or more?”

  Terry shook her head. “Italy, boss,” she said. “But does that make every visitor from Italy a suspect?”

  Morgan paused. Terry could tell she was only catching her breath, gaining strength again, like a geyser.

  “Of course not! Only this one! Get on it! Meanwhile, another police community support officer, David Sennen, is on his way up from St. Just to help. He’s the one who made this discovery possible. Bright young man. Ex-Culdrose. You can count on him. If I can get away, I’ll come down there, too.”

  “We will be anxiously awaiting, Morgan.”

  But Davies had already rung off.

  Novak checked in with his community support officers: two men and a woman, all young but eager. He sent them texts to let them know about the possible Italian name. Then he called Margaret Walsh, his longest-serving CSO.

  “Any joy, Maggie?” Novak asked when she answered. She was canvassing ‘Downalong,’ the oldest part of St. Ives, rising above the port, tightly packed with former fishermen’s cottages and threaded by a quirky warren of narrow, mostly cobbled lanes.
She had just stepped out of the fourteenth century Sloop Inn on The Wharf, the narrow street that ran along the harbor front, and turned up Fish Street where there were a couple of small, flower-bedecked stone guest houses. Walsh had grown up in just such a cottage in the heart of the old town, gone off to school, come back, found no work, and enlisted as a community support officer when an opening appeared. She’d been in the position for three years now and loved the work, though the pay was meagre.

  “Not yet,” she answered. “I’ve a few more B&Bs here in the lanes above the Wharf and then I’ll walk over the top to Porthmeor Beach.”

  “That’s mostly holiday lets and condos in those modern buildings facing the beach. I shouldn’t expect much there. Those beach people have almost nothing to do with St. Ives. Most of those flats are empty off-season. Rich owners from away. Who knows where from…?”

  “I hear you, but it’s worth a try. Meanwhile, Ronnie James is checking the terraced row houses above Porthmeor Hill, east of the cemetery. Lots of B&Bs there. I just heard from him. Nothing so far. And no Italians. Rob Swift’s checking the guest houses that line the A3074’s approach to town. Don’t envy him: must be more than a dozen of them along that ridge.”

  “Thanks, Maggie; I won’t bother the other two. But stay in touch.”

  Novak rang off and stared at the map on the wall of the office. “Most of the better hotels in and around St. Ives all share one fault,” he said, almost to himself.

  “What’s that?” Terry asked.

  “No dinner restaurant.”

  “St. Ives is packed with restaurants!”

  “Yes, but if you were in hiding, would you risk being seen in the town? He lived near here, on and off, for years, remember, and the town is small: a good chance he would be recognized. In a hotel restaurant, though, the diners would be tourists, not locals.”

  Terry smiled. She needed to push for Novak’s promotion to detective constable. The man was a natural: thoughtful, analytic. Much more like Penwarren than the often impulsive Morgan Davies. The more she knew him, the more she admired him.

  “What’s your suggestion, then?”

  “Just two remaining likely hotels: the St. Ives Harbour Hotel and Spa, only steps from the railway station. It has a well-respected terrace restaurant overlooking Porthminster Beach. We don’t know if Rhys-Jones has a vehicle; if he doesn’t, the train would make disappearing simple and quick. If you would be so kind, might you stop in there and examine their register? Your badge will gain you access.”

  “And you?”

  “The Garrack Hotel. It’s on a hillside just south of the center of town. Older, ivy-covered and almost hidden. Excellent restaurant. Even a heated pool. Great views of the ocean and town, and close to the Southwest Coast Path and the Coffin Way.”

  “All right, they both sound plausible.”

  “But if Rhys-Jones was Mary Trevean’s tenant, both roughly the same age, do you think he killed her? If so, why? And why stay here? I’m having trouble connecting the Trevean and Trevega cases with this Rhys-Jones. Where’s the motive?”

  “Maybe, in passing, she mentioned something dangerous: too dangerous. There’s no evidence that anyone fitting his description was staying anywhere else in that neighborhood, according to this Sennen fellow at St. Just. Trevean’s property is maybe two miles south along the Coffin Way from Trevega House. Very convenient. And if he was staying at Trevean’s cottage and was the only tenant she appears to have had at the time, why would he suddenly vanish? Why would the cottage be bleached sterile? What needed to be erased?”

  There were footsteps on the stairs. A young, rather bulky young man in a constable’s uniform, one lacking badges of rank, entered and blinked in the harsh light.

  “I’m to see a Detective Terry Bates. David Sennen. CSO St. Just.”

  Terry crossed the office and shook his hand. “David, we are grateful for your help, and especially for providing us with a possible person of interest in this case—or cases, I should say, as there may be two. Thank you for coming up here, we need all the resources we can muster. This is Police Constable Novak; he’s in charge here.”

  Both men nodded: typical Cornish male greeting.

  “What needs doing?” Sennen asked.

  Novak explained the searches already underway in the town. “DC Bates and I were about to investigate the guest lists at two larger hotels. The detective is taking one; I’m looking at the other. Would you like to ride with me? I can fill you in.” He looked at Terry and she nodded.

  “But Terry…Detective Bates,” Novak said, correcting himself, “there’s a problem. As a detective, you are in plain clothes. You can enter the St. Ives Harbour and Hotel and not be noticed.”

  “Oh, thank you for that compliment, Constable!”

  “That’s not what I meant and you know it. But you’ll look like just another guest. On the other hand, I’m in uniform. If Rhys-Jones is at the Garrack and sees me he’ll know I’m police. I’d like to suggest that I change into civilian clothes. I keep some here.”

  Terry thought for a moment. “It’s against regulation, of course, but I see your point. If Detective Inspector Davies were here I am almost certain she’d agree. She’s a great one for flouting procedure. Mr. Sennen, you’re in uniform and will have to wait out of sight in the car. That work for you?”

  Sennen nodded. He was dazzled by detective Bates. Any man would be.

  DAVID MOSS, THE landlord at the Tinners, heard Clare call him from the bar below his office. He picked his way down the narrow oak stairs and found a man in an iridescent orange jacket standing by the door: the chap from their Wednesday morning commercial waste collection.

  “George, right?” David said, extending a hand.

  “Right, sir.” George looked at his own dirty hand and withdrew it.

  “Offer you a pint?”

  The man ducked his head. “No sir, working, sir. But thank you.”

  “Well then, how can I help?”

  “Something in one of your wheelie bins in the car park, sir: not the recycling. One of the dust bins. We was just tipping them into the truck with the hydraulic lift, me and Thomas was, when we noticed. Computer gear or some such…”

  David followed him out. He’d known George for years. His partner was relatively new, a younger, well-built chap. Standing beside the maw at the rear of the truck, Thomas was digging amongst the garbage. He’d already set aside a laptop covered with fragrant food waste and now pulled out a cord with another piece of electrical equipment attached.

  “Not supposed to dispose of this stuff this way, sir, if I may say so,” Thomas warned. “You could be penalized. Dangerous chemicals, metals and whatnot inside, or so we’re told. Can’t go to our disposal site.”

  David looked at what they’d found. “I don’t recognize any of this, honestly. Doesn’t belong to us.”

  “What about this then? “Thomas said. He held a filthy ledger book in his gloved hand. It was dripping from one corner.

  “Nor that either. But let me get a bag,” David said.

  CLARE STOOD IN the kitchen, about to clean off the binned items, when David stopped her.

  “Hang on. Just had a thought. We had a police detective guest a while back—don’t mention it to anyone, right?”

  Clare nodded.

  “She asked me…”

  “She?”

  “Yes. Inspector Davies. Striking lady. Commanding. She asked me to let her know if anything unusual happened. It’s a case they’re investigating.”

  “This is pretty unusual, David…”

  “Yes. Yes, it is. I’ll get on the phone in the bar. Meantime, touch none of this.”

  David punched in 999. The pub was still empty; no lunch crowd yet. He was grateful. He left a message, referencing Inspector Davies.

  Comms texted it immediately to her. Morgan had just stepped into her unmarked Ford Estate. She was bound for St. Ives. She read the text and changed her itinerary immediately. She reckoned she could be in
Zennor by early afternoon. Bates could take care of St. Ives. She marched out to her car and called Calum from the car park. She could see him in an upstairs window.

  “To what do I owe this delightful surprise…” he began.

  “Get down here and into your car. We have a new scene. The Tinners Arms. New evidence. A laptop found in their garbage, among other things.”

  “Trevean’s computer?”

  “Was that an actual question?”

  Twenty-Five

  THE ST. IVES Harbour Hotel and Spa was quite beyond anything Terry Bates had experienced. It was a sprawling edifice of Victorian, Georgian, and more modern buildings, all brick, she guessed, the various periods knit together into a seamless and gracious whole by a mauve stucco exterior with white trim. It sat high along the shore side of the main A3074 road into town. She avoided the formal entrance and explored the property. Below the street level, the land fell away in manicured terraces down to the sands of Porthminster Beach, which glowed honey yellow in the late morning sun. Guests strolled barefoot on the strand, sandals and shoes in hand, pausing to snap photos with their phones. Others, an older group, basked like seals on chaises ranged along a balconied terrace high above the beach. In the wide oval harbor beyond, a small coastal fishing boat, turquoise blue hull, rounded the jetty on the incoming tide. Even at this distance she could hear its two-stroke on-board diesel engine thudding across the water like a heartbeat.

  Entering from the western side of the hotel, she explored the public rooms. They were a graceful combination of classic and modern: thick drapes, overstuffed chairs, a chic dining room decorated in ebony and ivory colors. The furnishings were at once vaguely art deco and yet modern, with picture perfect views of the harbor. She saw the train station, the terminus of the Great Western branch line, below and a few hundred yards to the west. Adam was right: it would be easy for anyone to make a quick exit by train.

  Finally, she entered the lobby. It was quite intimate, with a fireplace embraced by an ornate mantle. Facing the front door was a tall, wood-paneled reception desk. Behind it, a young woman with close-cropped hair black as a raven, wearing a dark blue blazer with the hotel’s name embroidered in gold thread on the left breast pocket, stared at a computer screen. She looked up.