COVER THE LIES: A TREGUNNA CORNISH CRIME NOVEL

by Carla Vermaat

  ’What for?’ He peers down at the desk, trying to focus on a form she’s holding up.

  ‘You will be held in custody.’

  I don’t wait for the eruption, which, surprisingly, ebbs away as if there had never been a threat. As I turn towards the man on the seat in the waiting area, I hear the abusive man behind me blurt out of a stream of apologies explaining that it has all been a misunderstanding between him and his mate. It is his mate, yes, not his enemy or the future victim of his murderous rage.

  Patiently, I wait until he stops for breath and in the moment of silence, I turn to the man in the waiting area.

  4

  Kenneth Poole squeezes his steel grey eyes and rises slowly, running a hand back through his thick, sandy-coloured hair. Clean shaven, he is tall and carries a bit too much weight around his waist.

  ‘Mr Poole, how can I help you?’ Showing him my ID card, I shake a firm, cool hand and gesture towards interview room number 1. ‘Shall we find a quieter place?’

  He glances at me as I open the door and I see a look in his eyes that suggests, for some reason, he wouldn’t have minded continuing to watch the events between the two men.

  ‘Yes, but I’m not sure …’ He pauses, apparently reluctant to disclose the reason for his visit; almost as if his worst fears won’t come true if he says nothing. ‘My wife.’ His voice is low and coarse and he seems slightly out of breath. ‘I heard on the radio that you found the body of a woman.’

  I stare at him, waiting for more. When he remains quiet, avoiding my eyes, I ask, ‘And you think it may be your wife?’

  ‘I hope not, of course but … it could be her.’

  He looks straight at my face and I know he doesn’t want to beat around the bush. For that reason, I avoid the obvious questions like why he seems to believe that his wife is dead.

  ‘What does your wife look like, Mr Poole?’

  He shakes his head, lost for words for a moment, then he says, clearly deep in thought, ‘She is … beautiful. Just beautiful.’

  I suppress a smile. ‘Can you describe her … features? Hair? Length? Weight?’

  ‘She is naturally blond and she must be … she is about five inches shorter than me. And her weight ... I don't know. She’s just … perfect.'

  There is something about him that makes me feel he may be right. Without a word, I take the Polaroid photo from my pocket and lay it on the table, upside down, thinking of her eyes.

  ‘And what is the colour of her eyes?’ I ask casually, but my voice must have acquired an edge that gives something away because he gasps for breath and looks me straight in the eyes.

  I already know his answer. I can read his mind and, unfortunately, he can read mine too. His head sinks and his shoulders drop and all of a sudden, he looks twenty years older.

  ‘Her eyes are different, inspector. One is blue, the other is brown.’

  ‘Of course that doesn’t mean … I’m so sorry, Mr Poole.’

  He swallows hard, fighting a lump in his throat, trying to remain composed and not bursting into tears.

  ‘This is a photo of the woman we found this morning, Mr Poole. It isn’t a pleasant photo, so I don’t blame you if you don’t want to see it.’

  ‘You don’t need identification?’

  ‘We have several options to tackle that, Mr ‘Poole, but maybe it is best if you let me ask you some questions first.’

  He nods, relieved by the delay, maintaining a vague hope that at least for another few minutes he can believe this is all one huge mistake. Then he sits quietly for a while, staring at trembling fingers, perhaps half wishing he was a woman so it would be ok to show his pain and sorrow.

  ‘For now, Mr Poole, just to make sure we’re not making any mistake, can you tell me which of her eyes is blue?’

  ‘The left,’ he says promptly, not hesitating at all. ‘Her left eye is blue.

  I nod, putting the unseen photo back into my pocket. ‘Eh … can I get you something? Tea, coffee, a glass of water?’

  He doesn’t move. ‘Coffee would be … no, it’ll make me sick.’

  ‘Perhaps later,’ I say gently. ‘What is your wife's name?’

  ‘Alicia. Alicia Poole.

  I write the name under his on my notepad and wait patiently. Once more he is quiet, gathering his thoughts, trying to grasp the enormity of what is happening to him, the impact it will have on his personal life, and trying to fight the hope that this is a dream, a bad joke, not the cruel reality.

  ‘Sorry.’ He covers his eyes with his hands, his shoulders hanging low as if in defeat. He is locked in a cocoon of disbelief and denial. Raw grief will catch up with him later.

  There are sounds from the hall, shouts and laughter. The normal day-to-day life of a working environment. Somehow, it seems to wake him up. His head jerks backward and for a moment he studies the ceiling, then he clears his throat and eyes me suspiciously.

  ‘I’m sorry you had to find out … the way you did, Mr Poole.’

  ‘Not your fault,’ he replies brusquely. ‘I suppose you'll have questions, but I have lots of them too.’

  ‘Of course. I will tell you as much as I can but you must understand that the investigation has just started. We found … it is only a few hours ago that we found … her.’ I clear my throat. It seems wrong to speak of his wife as ‘the body’, let alone ‘the corpse’. ‘When did you last see your wife, Mr Poole?’

  ‘It was … on Saturday morning.’ His eyes widen and it is obvious that he is surprised that it is less than two days ago that he saw his wife alive for the last time, and that his life has now changed in about the click of two fingers. ‘At about nine. We’d had breakfast and I went upstairs to change. I was going off to play golf with some of my business partners.’ He pauses, then shrugs. ‘Nothing unusual.’

  ‘And your wife stayed at home?’

  ‘She did, well, she doesn’t play golf. Didn’t, I should say, I guess … uhm … she never learned to play and when I suggested that she have lessons, she laughed and said … did I really think playing golf was something she would like to do? I didn’t expect she would want to learn but I thought … I’d just thought I’d suggest it, you know?’

  ‘How long have you been married?’

  ‘More than four years.’

  ‘Children?’

  ‘Yes, well, but not together, if that is what you mean. I have two sons, from my previous marriage. They’re both married. Alicia … has … had a young daughter from her marriage.’

  ‘How old is her daughter?’

  ‘Briony is nine.’

  ‘Does she live with you?’

  ‘Yes, of course, she lived with her mother, obviously, but … I suppose everything will change now.’

  ‘Does she see her biological father regularly?’

  ‘Every other weekend. That was this weekend. Trevor just came to pick up Briony at the same time when I was leaving.’

  ‘Trevor?’

  ‘Trevor Bennett. Briony’s father. Sorry. I must have his address somewhere but, at the moment, I can’t think. I’m sorry. His number is on our phone at home.’

  As I write the names down, I make a mental note to have this followed up as soon as I can. I will have to organise a family liaison officer who is confident enough to handle a child of that age. Nine years old, a difficult age, too young to deal with a horrible loss like that, yet old enough to understand. The poor girl needs to be informed sensitively and quickly.

  ‘You were out playing golf and Briony was with her father, so Alicia was at home alone on Saturday?’

  He shrugs. ‘She was going to see her friend, Denise. They were going to do some shopping and then go to a cinema later maybe, and I assumed she would stay the night at Denise's.’

  I don’t like being fed snippets of information that I have to put together until I have the full picture. I much prefer to listen to everything in a more logical and chronological order.

  ‘Okay, let me get this in the right time frame
. Last Saturday morning, what time did you leave?’

  ‘It must have been close to half past nine when I got in my car and saw Trevor stop on the road. I remember thinking that I hoped he wouldn’t park in front of the drive, like he does sometimes. But he parked a bit further along and walked up the drive as I pulled out.’ He pauses briefly, catching my eye. ‘We aren’t enemies, inspector, but we aren’t friends either. Frankly, we have nothing in common, nothing to talk about other than the weather. So I didn’t stop to have a chat with him.’

  ‘Did you see him enter the house?’

  ‘No, but I’m sure everything was all right. I’d forgotten to put my laptop on the charger and I phoned Alicia about forty minutes later. She said I was just in time, as she was just about to leave the house also. So I assumed that by that time, Trevor and Briony had already left.’

  ‘So when you left that morning at half past nine, it was the last time you saw your wife?’

  ‘Yes.’ He is suddenly fiddly and fidgety. Nervous. Uncomfortable. I can’t understand what has caused this unexpected change of attitude.

  ‘You didn’t go home that night?’ I’ll have to ask him about his alibi again when I’ve seen the post-mortem report and the time of her death.

  ‘Uhm … no. Didn’t I say? I thought Alicia was going to stay at Denise’s. And the golf was, well … we had a good time on the golf course and we stayed and had a meal afterwards. I enjoyed myself and … I realised that I had drunk a bit too much. I knew Alicia and Briony weren’t at home, so I decided to stay in a hotel near the golf course.’ He offers a faint smile. ‘I suppose you want the name of that hotel?’

  ‘And the people in your company.’

  ‘Company?’ His face flushes and I don’t need to ask him if he spent the night alone. Finding out the lady’s name will have to wait until later and perhaps it won’t be necessary to get her involved. There’s no point in disclosing personal secrets without good reason.

  ‘When did you get home, Mr Poole?’

  ‘On Sunday evening. Around six, maybe it was five or ten past six. Trevor would normally bring Briony back after she’s had her tea with them, so I didn’t expect her back home before seven.’ He shifts on his seat, thinking, calculating, and trying to make sense of what now seems to occur to him as unusual.

  ‘I did think it was strange that Alicia wasn’t home yet,’ he says thoughtfully. ‘She would always make sure she was at home when Briony came back. She thought that was important to Briony. She would never be late. Unless something had happened to her, of course, like when she’d been held up somewhere for some reason.’ He sighs. ‘I checked the answer machine and there were several messages from Trevor. Apparently, Briony was feeling unwell and he had tried to call Alicia to ask if it was possible to bring Briony home earlier, but he’d not got through to her. In his last message, he said he would keep their daughter with them and if she cared to call him back, they could discuss the matter. I suppose he was annoyed that Alicia wasn’t there.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ’There’s nothing more to say, really. I tried to call Alicia, to find out what time she’d be home, but her battery must have gone flat. She didn’t answer. There was nothing to eat in the house that appealed to me and I decided to go out for a meal.’

  ‘Alone?’

  ‘Well, yes. To be honest, I was also a bit annoyed with Ali. So … uhm … I met some friends and we had a few drinks.’

  ‘In your local?’

  ‘No,’ he says, with a bit of a sneer. ‘I rarely go to a pub. No offence, inspector, but it’s not really my scene. No, when I go out like that, I go to the golf club where I’m a member.’

  Deciding not to push the matter at this moment, I smile and ask, ‘What time did you come home?’

  'It was around midnight. Uhm … someone dropped me off at home and she picked me up this morning to take me to my car.’

  ‘She?’

  ‘My secretary.’

  The classic mistress. It is not my intention to involve the secretary at this stage, but he seems to fear it is. He launches unto a lengthy explanation about his evening to play down any involvement with his secretary. I listen, only half convinced.

  ‘How do you make your living, Mr Poole?’

  If he is surprised by the sudden change of the subject, he doesn’t show it. ‘We have an estate agency. We have several offices in the region. I am more or less based in Wadebridge.’

  ‘We?’

  ‘Uhm … Julia and me.’

  ‘Is Julia your secretary?’

  The thought seems to amuse him. ‘Good heavens no! Julia is my first wife. We set up the business together, just after we got married. But then we had our children and she worked less. But … she was still involved and has remained involved as a full partner, as one of the conditions of our divorce.’

  ‘I see.’ His first wife must have had a grudge to insist on that condition. ‘Sorry I interrupted you. Go on, please, Mr Poole.’

  He clears his throat, a look of concern in his eyes. Something tells me he is going to ring his ex-wife as soon as he walks out of the station.

  ‘As I said, my secretary dropped me off at home around midnight. I had a bit too much to drink and, as much as Alicia likes her wine, she hates it when I’ve had too much. The house was dark and I reckoned she was already asleep. I thought her car was in the garage. It never occurred to me to check that. I decided not to wake her and I slept in the guest bedroom. When I woke up this morning, I thought she was having a lie-in. I knew that Briony was still with Trevor, and I thought I’d let Alicia sleep and enjoy a lazy morning. Besides, I had to prepare for a meeting which was scheduled for ten o’clock and I had to get my car from the golf club before that. My secretary collected me at eight and I drove straight to work from the golf club.’

  I cast a quick glance at my watch. Hopefully DI Maloney has arrived by now. The woman’s identity is crucial to progress with the investigation. We also need to speak to Alicia’s friend Denise, with whom she spent most of the Saturday. But it’ll have to wait. Something tells me that Mr Poole has more important information.

  ‘When did you discover that Alicia wasn’t at home at all?’

  ‘This morning. As soon as I arrived in my office, I realised I’d forgotten my laptop. I thought about asking my secretary to pick it up, but Alicia didn’t answer the phone and I didn’t want Jenna to enter the house with my keys and frighten Alicia to death.’ He gasps in horror as he realises what he’s just said. ‘Sorry, that wasn’t what I meant.’

  ‘You seem to make a habit of forgetting your laptop.’

  He smiles faintly. ‘In this case, yes, it sounds a bit odd, doesn’t it? I normally don’t take my work home. Home is home, work is work. I used to work more than was good for me, which was the reason for my divorce from Julia. Understandably perhaps, but, after that, I worked even harder until I got a serious warning. Chest pains.’ He smiles faintly, almost embarrassed. ‘The pain turned out to be gall-stones, but I thought it was a heart attack and I was so scared that I swore that I would change my lifestyle and I did.' He stops abruptly, realising that his thoughts have wandered off. ‘The reason why I took the laptop home this weekend was because of the meeting this morning. It was an important meeting and I wanted to go through the details again to make sure I was on top of everything.’

  ‘But you didn’t.’

  ‘As I said, I went out last night and came home around midnight. I thought, sod it. I knew all the ins-and-outs of the contract and I didn’t really need to check it all over again.’

  ‘How did the meeting go?’

  ‘What?’ He stares at me, surprised.

  ‘You said you had a business meeting this morning at ten o’clock?’

  ‘Oh yes, of course. It went alright. No problem at all. We signed the new contract, much to my satisfaction, to be honest.’

  ‘But how …?’

  ‘How did I discover that Alicia wasn’t at home and that she hadn’t been
at home at all? Well, Trevor called me. He told me that Briony had developed a fever and that she was really ill and he was adamant that she should stay with them. Of course, he was also annoyed that he couldn’t get hold of Alicia. It got me thinking that it was unusual for Alicia not to answer her phone. Like most people nowadays who have mobile phones glued to their hands, Alicia was no exception. It occurred to me that she could be ill as well. Flu or something, just like Briony. So I went home to check. That was when I discovered that her car was gone, her bed hadn’t been slept in and, by the looks of it, she hadn’t been home at all.’

  ‘And that wasn’t like her.’

  ‘No, definitely not. I mean, she liked to go out with Denise, you know, girly nights and all that. That didn’t bother me. I could understand that, because Denise lives alone and … they’ve been best friends for years.’

  He stares at his hands again, his fingers trembling, eyes filling with tears as the grim reality hits him right in the face.

  ‘When I heard on the radio that they found a woman’s body … I don’t know how, inspector, but I just knew it was her.’

  5

  People who practice the art of Feng Shui would instantly feel their whole body itching when they enter DCI Guthrie’s office. The furniture and colours are a disturbing mismatch that makes me feel uneasy and uncomfortable. If someone told him about the invisible forces that bind the universe, earth and humanity together, and explained the philosophy of harmonizing as with the surrounding environment, Guthrie would instantly dismiss the person as a nutcase.

  His desk is placed against the wall so that, when he turns in his black leather chair, he can look out of the window and enjoy the stunning view across the bay. On the opposite wall is a painting of a golden sunset casting sparkles of light on the waves entering a Cornish cove. The remains of an old tin mine are silhouetted on the cliffs to the right, and on the left, a lone figure balances on the edge. I can't explain why the painting has always appealed to me. Or perhaps it’s just that I can’t understand that a man like Guthrie can feel the emotion in it, the desolation of the lone figure in particular.