by Will North
“Oh! Sorry, I didn’t hear you come in!”
“I didn’t. I was already here.”
“Then you’re a guest? How may I help?”
“No, I’m not a guest,” Terry said, sliding her warrant card and badge wallet across the marble desk. “I should like to speak to the manager. Can you arrange that?”
Evidently nonplussed, the young woman sputtered: “Oh dear, has someone filed a complaint? Because we did have an especially difficult guest just yesterday…”
“No, not at all. The manager, please?”
“Yes of course. I’ll just see if he’s in his office.”
She returned moments later with a slender man with smooth dark skin and sleek black hair. Handsome and, she guessed, in his mid-thirties. He extended a hand.
“I am Mr. Sunny Gupta,” he said in his faintly musical Indian voice. “I am the hotel manager. How may we be of assistance?”
Terry shook his hand and smiled. Thank you for seeing me, Mr. Gupta. Might there be someplace private where we might chat?”
“Yes of course, please come through.” He ushered her around the tall desk and opened the door to his office, holding it open for her to enter first.
She was surprised at how high-tech his large office was. There were two wide-screen computer monitors atop his desk and other monitors on the wall above which showed ever-changing scenes of both the interior and exterior of the hotel: closed circuit cameras. Beige file cabinets lined the opposite wall. She took an offered chair beside his desk and he settled into his own, swiveling to face her.
“Now, then…”
“We are searching, Mr. Gupta, for someone who may have been involved in a crime in this area. He is not a transient; he is a native but we believe he is staying in accommodations in or near St. Ives. I should like to have access to your current registration list so I might check the names of those staying here. I could, of course, obtain a warrant, but I am hoping you will want to cooperate.”
Gupta hesitated a moment, staring past her, as if reviewing hotel rules in his head.
Finally, he turned back to his desk, punched a few keys on his computer keyboard, and rose.
“Here. Please,” he said waving her to his chair. “Be my guest.”
Terry laughed. “I suspect I could never afford to be your guest here, Mr. Gupta, but thank you. This should not take long.”
“Perhaps we should make it possible for you to stay one weekend, as our guest?”
“Thanks for the offer, but I am afraid that would be out of order.”
“Yes. I should have known. Pardon me.” He retreated to the other side of the office.
Terry scrolled through the names. “Good Lord, how many rooms do you have?”
“Forty-six. All luxuriously appointed.”
Terry smiled. She wouldn’t have expected anything less.
After a few minutes of studying the list for Jeremy Rhys-Jones, or any other that might be a recognizable false name, Italian or otherwise, she stood.
“Thank you, Mr. Gupta. I have not found the person we are looking for. But I deeply appreciate your willing assistance.”
He smiled and admired the petite young woman before him.
“It has been my distinct pleasure, Detective. Please let us know if there is anything else we can do to advance your investigation.”
DAVIES WAS LESS than fifteen minutes south of Bodmin, racing down the A30 in the fast lane and well over the limit, when she saw the police flashers behind her.
“Bloody hell! I don’t have time for this nonsense!” She moved left into the slow lane and looked for a place to pull over on the verge.
The unmarked police car blew right past her. It was Calum’s silver turbo-charged Volvo estate, assigned to him because he was also a member of the Met’s terrorism squad in London and needed a vehicle that could get him there fast in the case of an attack.
“You bastard!” she shouted, stomping on the accelerator and giving chase. The Ford screamed in complaint; he was pulling away fast. She backed it off to eighty, still well above the posted limit, and cursed again.
When she reached Zennor, Calum was already in his white Tyvek jumpsuit, a blue gauze elastic cap covering his thinning hair, and latex gloves on his hands. He and David Moss stood over a sunlit picnic table in the Tinners cobbled yard. It was covered with a sterile white plastic sheet, the kind they used for bodies. Three items lay on the sheet.
“You cheat,” she said as she approached Calum.
“Glad you could make it, Detective Inspector.”
She resisted the temptation to slug him. “What have you got?”
With only a gloved thumb and forefinger Calum was just lifting the fake-leather cover of some kind of ledger book. The book was slimy and smelled rank. He looked at the first page, written in a graceful script.
“Yes. Mary Trevean’s.” He closed it and reached for a clear plastic evidence bag.
“Hold it! What’s the last entry, dammit?”
West stood, straightened his back, gloved hands on hips, and turned.
“Come on, Morgan, you know I can’t risk that. The book, this laptop and modem, they all go to the forensics lab next. I’ll take them there straightaway. Anything we do here will just muddy the results: fingerprints, hair, who knows what else…”
“This is just you making a power play.”
“No, this is me being careful; it’s in my job description: protect the evidence.”
“I hate this part.”
“No you don’t. You love it. You live for it.”
David Moss was shaking his head. “You two always have so much fun together, do you?”
They both grinned.
Morgan watched Calum load the three items, each in its own heavy plastic bag, into a large metal container, close the lid, and seal it with a labeled plastic zip tie. She watched him speed away, hoping he’d be safe, then ducked into the Tinners. It was early, but she needed a pint.
“OPEN THAT GATE, will you?” Novak asked.
“Sir?” CSO Sennen replied.
“I’ll explain in a moment.” It was just before noon and they were high on a hill at the southern edge of St. Ives, where grazing land replaced settlement. Burthallen Lane, a single lane road, dead-ended at the edge of a field, lush green and sparkling with ground-level white and pink English daisies.
Sennen got out, swung open the wide metal farm gate, and Novak parked his squad car, plastered with its instantly recognizable iridescent blue and yellow checkerboard decals, in the field behind a high stone hedge covered in ivy. He stepped out and gestured for Sennen to take the driver’s seat.
“I’ve been to the Garrack before. A friend’s wedding reception. There’s only a long and narrow entrance lane that branches off from this one. We passed it. A squad car would be noticed immediately.”
“I get it.”
“Right then, so I’ll stroll up the lane like any other country walker or guest and go to reception. If I need you, I’ll phone your mobile, yeah?”
“Sure. Good thinking.”
Novak rounded a bend and was, as he had been before, struck by how charming the vine-covered main building was. The hotel looked like it had grown out of the hillside, rather than being imposed upon it. Well-tended gardens spread in every direction. A small, gable-roofed single-story stone structure attached to one side of the main building had an arched, wrought iron sign above the sage green door which announced the hotel’s modest entrance. He stepped inside. The ceiling was open to the rafters and sunlight flooded in though skylights. The reception desk was barely six feet long and painted in shiny white enamel that reflected the light throughout the little room.
There was no one behind it. Novak waited a bit, then discovered an electric call button at one end. He pressed it. In a few moments, a middle-aged man in a suit and tie came through a low door in the back wall and blinked in the bright light.
“Good Lord, I hope you haven’t waited long. I’m afraid that Betsy,
our regular receptionist, called in sick this morning. Flu or something. Most inconvenient. I’m Barry Haselton, the manager. Have you a reservation, sir? Let’s get you settled in. Baggage outside in your car?”
“As it happens, Mr. Haselton, I’m not booked in. I’m here on business.” He pulled his warrant card from his jacket pocket. “Police business.”
Haselton bristled. “But we’ve had no trouble here and I believe we are in accordance with all our licenses and codes…”
“It’s nothing to do with that, sir. And this noble hotel, where I have stayed myself, is in no trouble with the law.”
Haselton softened. “Well then…?”
Novak explained.
Forty-five minutes later, Novak walked back down the lane. He’d gone through the guest list twice, to no avail, thanked Haselton for his cooperation, and now felt defeated. His theory that Rhys-Jones would stay nearby and in a better hotel was falling apart. A part of him, bigger than he wanted to admit, felt he’d let Terry down.
Sennen saw him come through the farm gate, got out of the squad car, and moved to the passenger seat. Novak dropped into the driver’s seat and simply shook his head at Sennen’s unspoken question. He called DC Bates’s mobile.
“Anything Detective Bates?”
“Other than a growing envy and resentment of the kind of people who can afford to stay at the St. Ives Harbour Hotel and Spa, no. Sorry.” She wondered why she was apologizing to a uniformed constable and realized that, in her mind at least, Novak was already her peer.
“You?”
“Same.”
“Look, I haven’t eaten. How about a late lunch? You’re the local; tell me where.”
He thought for a moment. “Spinacio’s will still be serving. It’s right on The Wharf. Vegetarian but wonderful; all local produce. And a great wine list which, frankly, I am ready for.”
“Me too. Fifteen minutes?”
“Depending on parking.”
She was waiting for him at a table overlooking the harbor.
“You’d think a squad car could park anywhere,” Novak said slipping into his chair. “But no.”
“Where’s Sennen?”
“Manning the fort; he’s got my number if he needs me.”
A waitress asked if they wanted anything to drink. They both ordered a glass of pinot grigio, the cheapest on the list.
The waitress returned with their drinks.
Terry smiled and held up her glass: “Hello, Adam.”
It took him aback. He blinked. He was still “at work.”
“Hello, Terry,” he finally said, lifting his own glass and grinning.
“Lousy day. Let’s order, shall we?”
They looked at their menus, which were in Italian but with subtitles.
“I think I’ll just have an insalata misto and drink my frustration out,” Terry said.
“You have a long drive home,” Novak reminded her.
“I’ll be fine. I have a ‘hollow leg,’ as my grandfather used to say. Of course, he died of cirrhosis…”
Novak didn’t know how to respond. He studied the menu. He’d skipped breakfast and wanted something substantial.
“Ah, riso con i porcini.” The translation said ‘slow cooked risotto rice in a porcini mushroom white wine sauce.’
The waitress took their orders. “The rice will take just a little while, chef advises, but it is worth the wait. Only fifteen or twenty minutes.”
Novak looked across the table at Terry.
“That’s fine; we’re in no hurry,” she said.
They were in mid-conversation a few minutes later when Novak suddenly looked above and past her.
“Hello? Adam?”
He shook his head and blinked.
“I’m an idiot.”
“Come on...”
He caught the eye of the waitress. She came immediately.
“I’m sorry, sir; it’s not ready yet. I explained…”
“No, that’s not it. Please bring back your menu.”
When she returned, he spun it around before Terry and pointed to the dish he’d ordered.
“Yes? What?”
“There is a guest at the Garrack who is registered as G. Riso. Riso is the Italian word for what?
“Rice, it says so right here.”
“How about Rhys?” He pulled out his smart phone and typed in: “Italian for Jeremy.” The answer was immediate: Geremio.
Novak stood. “Let’s go.”
“No. I need to report this to Morgan first. If it is him, he’s not going anywhere and it’s best we don’t create a situation by which he might be warned…plus, I’m hungry.”
Twenty-Six
“SO, WHAT YOU’RE telling me is that Eldridge Biggins is bumping right along the edge of insolvency. Do I have that right?”
“I wouldn’t put it quite that baldly, Inspector,” Roderick Nelson at the St. Ives Lloyds Bank branch said, smiling at the handsome woman across his desk.
“That is because, Mr. Nelson, you are paid to be judicious. I’m not, and it doesn’t suit me anyway. Biggins is in debt up to his ears and drawing his account down to nearly zero every month, am I right?”
“If you put it that way…”
“I do.”
“Then, yes. His dairy farm is doing better than most. I see the income statements. It’s mostly his property debt to the Agricultural Mortgage Corporation in Hampshire that’s a strain. Usually makes the monthly payment, but sometimes he’s late and gets charged a fee. Reckon that’s only fair; AMC have an excellent reputation in the farm loan business. Mostly it’s the volatility in milk prices: up one month, down another. I’ve reviewed their separate accounts and he and his wife seem to live very frugally. Don’t quite know how they get by, frankly. Household spending is modest to say the least: some charges on their Lloyds charge cards occasionally: at the Co-Op in St. Just, utility rates, and fuel from the petrol station up at the Tesco superstore just east of St. Ives. A bit of a drive it is, but it’s the only petrol station left here, sad to say. What garages we once had just do repairs now; can’t compete with Tesco’s petrol prices. As for the rest of the Biggins’s accounts, they spend so little I reckon maybe the farm meets their basic needs for food and such. Who knows? There is also an outstanding credit card charge with a physician’s surgery in Penzance. For Alice Biggins. She has her own account and is paying a monthly penalty for that overdue debt. I don’t know, of course, what that’s about or why it’s not been paid. She has the resources.”
“Do you have the physician’s name or billing address?”
“Yes, they have sent a collection notice.”
“I’d like it.”
Morgan’s mobile buzzed. She frowned at the phone and yanked it to her ear.
“I’m busy. What is it?”
“It’s Terry Bates here.”
“Oh good, then my caller ID is still functioning…”
“Morgan, stop it. We may have located Jeremy Rhys-Jones.”
“Where?”
“It was PC Novak’s idea. He was sure Rhys-Jones wouldn’t hole up in some doss house…”
“Spare me the theory, Terry: Where?”
“The Garrack Hotel on the southern edge of St. Ives, closest accommodation to Trevega House, just a little over a mile away from it. He appears to be using an alias, an Italian version of his real name, we believe: Geremio Riso. Where are you?”
“Lloyds St. Ives and just finishing. Has Novak taken any action?”
“Of course not. We await your orders.”
Morgan thought she heard a tinge of sarcasm but let it go. “I need to inform Mister. Well done, Terry,” she added as an afterthought.
“Not me. Novak worked it out. It’s time someone pushed his promotion to CID.”
Morgan did not reply. Terry had a thing for Adam Novak; that was becoming clear. But did that make her wrong? Morgan had been watching him and didn’t think so.
“Where are you now?”
�
�On our way back from lunch. We’ll be at the Dove Street station in a few minutes. CSO Sennen from St. Just and PC Novak’s three local CSOs are already there.
“THERE ARE SEVEN of us down here,” Morgan reported to Penwarren from her car outside the bank. “Admittedly, four are only CSOs, but we could take him.”
“For what, Morgan?” the DCI said. “I appreciate your eagerness, and also the work of Terry’s team down there, but the plain fact is that even if this is Jeremy Rhys-Jones, and we don’t know that, we have nothing on him. A partial print, as yet unidentified, on that leg hold trap that caught the dog. Otherwise nothing. Not from the dead cow, not from the fire, not from the well-poisoning, not from the Land Rover, and certainly not from the attack on the girl. Nothing. We don’t even know what Rhys-Jones looks like.
“I’ll need to inform Sir Michael. His son—if that is who this is—is wanted by the Italian Polizia on a criminal charge. That may take precedence. I’ll have him email us a photo, if he has one. Maybe an ID photo from the bank Jeremy worked for. I’ll try to make that fast. Meanwhile, we have nothing but suspicions about his activities here in Cornwall, nothing by which we can even bring him in for an interview.”
“What about using a false passport?”
“We don’t know that this particular guest has, do we? Are you hearing me, Morgan?”
Davies paced around the small police office, her thick low heels like rifle shots on a polished wood floor dating back to who knew when. The rest of the team stood back and watched.
“Of course I’m hearing you, dammit! I just don’t like it!”
“May I just remind you, in case you’ve forgotten, Detective Inspector, that I am your commanding officer?”
Morgan slumped into a chair, defeated. “All right, Sir. No offense meant. Here’s my Plan B: PC Novak calls the manager at the Garrack with whom he’s already spoken. He lets him know this alleged Italian may be a person of interest. He lets on nothing else. He asks the manager to keep an eye out and let us know immediately if he sees something odd or out of character—like the chap suddenly checking out. How am I doing so far?”
