COVER THE LIES: A TREGUNNA CORNISH CRIME NOVEL

by Carla Vermaat

  There was coffee with strange shaped muffins afterwards which had been made by the boys under the supervision of their mother. Not a word of protest came when Lauren announced that it was time for them to go to bed. She’d opened another bottle of wine and we sat next to each other on the couch, watching a silly but enjoyable comedy on TV. It was all very cosy and relaxed, and so homely that I realised I had dreaded the moment I had to get up and go to my own home. Cold. Empty. No one to talk to. No one to hold in my arms and caress, nobody’s lips to kiss and no red hair to bury my face in.

  I couldn’t remember who had made the first move, but suddenly her head had rested against my shoulder and she had wriggled into a more comfortable position, eventually with my arm over the backrest of the sofa in a protective way around her. Then there was an outburst of laughter on the TV, a giggle from her and she turned to look at me with a happy laugh in her eyes. I couldn’t resist her. I pulled her closer, murmured her name and kissed her. It was like a promise, the start of something that could no longer be ignored. I had known all along that I was attracted to her, but I was too afraid to dare to hope that she felt the same way.

  But then she pulled me closer. I could taste a sweet sensuality on her lips. I could feel her hard nipples under the soft fabric of her sleeveless top that had silver metallic threads along the edges. She made it quite clear how much she wanted me.

  I’m certainly not proud of what I did. I just panicked. I can’t rationalise it any better than that. I knew I couldn’t give her what she wanted. I knew I wouldn’t be able to make love to her, not properly, not in the right way, not the way she wanted me to, anyway. I felt her hand under my shirt, hesitating as it went in the direction of my stoma bag. Then she pulled back a little bit, probably sensing that I had held my breath. Her hand crept down my stomach, teasingly slow. I couldn’t stop her. I didn’t want to stop her. Against all the odds, I wished something miraculous would happen to my body. But it didn’t. She mumbled something like I needn’t worry about my stoma bag. She knew it was there. She didn’t mind. But it wasn’t that.

  Then, without any warning, the moment passed. A cry from upstairs and her motherly instincts took over. She lifted her head, listening. ‘Stuart,’ she said, recognising instinctively the voice that sounded no different to me from the voice of his twin brother. ‘I think he must be feeling sick. Too much ice cream. Uhm … Andy, I am so sorry, but I’ll have to go up and see to him.’

  She kissed me on my lips, softly and full of tenderness, a look of innocent promise in her eyes that she wouldn’t be long.

  ‘Of course,’ I said, not feeling sorry at all. Instead, I was relieved. Clearly, she hadn’t realised what my real problem was. She’d thought it was embarrassment, discomfort, because of my stoma bag.

  I couldn’t help myself. I heard her talking to her son. I heard the running of taps and the toilet flushing several times. She had to change his bed sheets. I felt sorry for her, for Stuart, but I was relieved by the opportunity. I put on my shoes and sneaked out of the house with my coat under my arm. Ten minutes later, I sent her a text message: ‘I am sorry.’

  It was senseless and cruel. God knows what must have gone through her head when she found that I had gone. Deliberately, I pushed aside my guilt, my regrets, everything that had to do with feelings and emotions. When she called me the next day, her voice was soft and hesitant but, like a coward, I told her I had received a call from the station. She knew it was a lie. She said ‘oh, I see’ and after a long silence, disconnected.

  ‘Well?’ says Mr Curtis, pulling me back to the reality. ‘Will you go and see her?’

  ‘I … I don’t know.’

  ‘That is nonsense! Why not? I know you feel for her. Your face changes completely when I say her name.’

  ‘It isn’t that simple, Mr Curtis!’

  ‘Why not?’ He smiles but grimly. ‘I care for you, Tregunna. I’ve made some big mistakes in my life and I’ve regretted them right up to the present day. If I could turn back the clock, I would certainly swallow my pride and make different decisions. I was stupid, I was proud and arrogant, and it was too late by the time I realised it. By then, the woman I loved had married someone else and she was pregnant. I didn’t want to disrupt her life. I knew she was happy, but I also knew that she never stopped loving me. And I never stopped loving her. I never got married, Tregunna. I didn’t think I deserved to be happy with anyone else, and maybe there was a bit of hope that one day we would meet again.’

  ‘But now …?’

  ‘She died two years ago.’ He shakes his head to indicate that he won’t answer any more questions. ‘I don’t want you to become a miserable old sod like me. You and your Lauren are made for each other and I want to make sure that you don’t make the same mistakes as me.’

  I stare at him. He won’t let this go before I make him a promise. I can’t tell him the truth, as no doubt he will make sure he sees Lauren again. So I do the only thing I can do. I lie and say that I will do my best.

  9

  In his mid-thirties, with short black hair and thin lips, Trevor Bennett lives on the outskirts of Liskeard. He stands in the doorway, his arms hang down beside his body from rounded shoulders, nodding slowly, biting his bottom lip, and blinking away tears when I explain I have more questions to ask about the death of his ex-wife.

  ‘It’s so very sad. I can’t imagine why anyone would want to … harm her.’ He falls silent, looking over my shoulder as if something has caught his attention.

  ‘We are treating her death as suspicious, Mr Bennett. We want to find out who is responsible for her death.’

  His shoulders shiver as he forces a smile that isn’t reflected in his eyes. ‘Of course, of course,’ he says, pulling his gaze away from whatever had caught his eye and focusing on me for the first time. ‘I’m sorry, excuse my manners … do come in, please.’

  The pale carpet is pristine and I am politely asked to take off my shoes. He waits for me to undo my laces, frowning disapprovingly as he notices that part of my big toe is poking out through a hole in my sock. I hear music and outbursts of laughter from a TV comedy behind one of the closed doors in the hallway. The door he opens leads through the kitchen to a side room that must once have been part of a garage. It smells damp, musty and feels very cold, as if the room isn’t used very much. It makes me wonder why he has taken me into this rather unwelcoming place; it seems as though he’s trying to make some sort of point.

  The room is cluttered with an old desk, a computer and a printer, some old, battered, black files in a dirty white bookcase, and a drying rack with three towels and a single dark sock draped over it. In a corner is an exercise bike with a few men’s shirts and children’s white school blouses on coat hangers hanging on the handle bars and an ironing board with a pleated skirt waiting to be ironed. There is also a stack of clear plastic boxes containing all sorts of items, from Christmas decorations to children’s shoes and boots. Out of a small rear window I can see the back garden sloping slightly upwards, with a square patch of worn grass covered by a circular trampoline with safety nets around it. Beneath the shrubs all along the border are yellow daffodils and primroses. Further back is a large greenhouse with broken panes of glass.

  ‘Maureen’s,’ he says, as if to answer the question that, I assume, is reflected in my face as I catch sight of the glasshouse. ‘She loves it. We are pretty much self-sufficient in vegetables here in the summer.’

  ‘And you?’ I ask casually.

  ‘No green fingers here, inspector. I just mow the lawn when I’m asked to.’ He gives a shy grin, moving the only chair from behind the desk in my direction. He clears the edge of the desk and perches on it, one foot resting on the rim of a metal waste bin.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he says uncomfortably. ‘If I’d known what time you were coming …’ He stops, eyeing me suspiciously as if he’s wondering whether it’s wise to go on or not.

  ‘No problem.’

  ‘Erm … Maureen is out.’
/>
  ‘I came primarily to speak to you, Mr Bennett.’

  He carefully laces his fingers together and rests his hands on one knee, looking miserable, as if the fact that his wife is out and she can’t back him up makes him feel vulnerable. ‘I suppose this is about what happened … this weekend?’

  ‘I’m sorry that you have to go through it again, Mr Bennett. I know that we already have your statement, but there are a few more questions we would like to ask you.’

  He nods, his eyes cast down. I can’t tell whether he is nervous because he has something to hide or because he is stricken with more grief than he wants to show. His marriage with Alicia ended five years ago, but he might still have strong feelings for her.

  ‘I’ll make it as quick as possible, Mr Bennett.’

  He doesn’t appear to hear me. ‘My stepdaughter, Gillian, it was her birthday last Saturday. We went out with the family. And Briony came as well, of course.’ He pauses briefly, closing his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose as if he wants to blow the memories away. ‘Today, Gillian is having a party for her friends. A sleep-over party. They’re off school tomorrow. Some catching-up-day for the teachers. Maureen and the girls have gone out and will be back shortly and I’m going to make them pancakes and … Anyway, Maureen and I … we didn’t want to cancel that.’ He takes a deep shuddering breath. ‘We didn’t think it was right … it isn’t fair to Gillian. She … she’s hardly ever met Alicia.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘I would have gone with them, but Maureen’s asked one of the mothers to help instead. I … I don’t feel like partying at all.’

  ‘How old is Gillian?’

  ‘Eleven. Nasty little bitches, that age.’ This rather bitter comment is followed by a quick grin as if to say that he didn’t mean it like that. ‘Girls on the edge, says Maureen.’

  ‘Is Gillian your wife’s only child?’

  ‘No, she’s got a son too. Alfie. He’s seven.’

  ‘I understand you were out for the whole weekend. Would you like to tell me about it?’

  ‘We went up to Devon. Maureen’s sister has a few holiday bungalows and we stayed in one of those. Mind you, it was bitterly cold that night.’

  His voice drifts off as it has occurred to him how cold it was when his ex-wife died.

  ‘And Briony was with you?’

  ‘Of course. She’s my daughter; she’s part of my family.’ He pauses. ‘I know now why Alicia didn’t pick up the phone. She was dead and I … oh my God … I … I was so angry with her. I mean, Briony was sick and Gillian got the same bug a few hours later. Briony wanted to go home, to her mum, to her own bed.’ He gestures vaguely towards the ceiling. ‘Unfortunately, we have only three bedrooms. When Briony is staying here, she sleeps in with Gillian. Not an ideal situation, but the girls get on very well, so it hasn’t been a problem yet. Only that day, when Briony was so ill … I’m sorry, you were saying?’

  ‘Perhaps you can start from the beginning. Saturday morning, when you picked up Briony from your ex-wife’s home.’

  ‘Okay.’ He sums up the times and events as if he’d rehearsed before I knocked on the door. I duly write down the details, but with every word, he more or less confirms what he said in his original statement and also what Kenneth Poole told me earlier.

  He collected Briony on Saturday morning, waved to Kenneth who he saw driving off at about half past nine, had a brief word with Alicia about some domestic matters, mainly about the possibility of Briony and Gillian going out horse riding, and then went back to his home in Liskeard with Briony. By then Maureen had packed their bags and, about fifteen minutes later, they were on the road to his wife’s sister in Devon. They had planned to return at the end of the Sunday, but because Briony got ill and the rest of the family wasn’t feeling very well either, they drove back home around lunch-time instead. At Briony’s request, he repeatedly called Alicia but he didn’t get much further than leaving messages on her answer phone, to which she didn’t respond.

  ‘I called her names, inspector, I mean, I thought how irresponsible she was being, not being there for her daughter when she needed her most.’

  ‘You couldn’t have known.’

  ‘No.’ His eyes widen. ‘Of course not! I hope you’re not thinking that I …’

  ‘The investigation is at an early stage, Mr Bennett. We have no suspects yet.’

  ‘But I suppose you’re targeting family and friends first.’

  I nod slowly. ‘Statistically, most murder victims are related to domestic disputes.’

  ‘Yeah, I’ve read that somewhere. But clearly, I have an alibi for most of the weekend.’

  ‘Where exactly were you staying in Devon?’

  His expression is grim and bitter. ‘Are you trying to pin me down, in case I drove back to Cornwall, killed my ex-wife, and then drove back to Devon? Without Maureen missing me?’

  ‘We’ll have to look at every possibility, Mr Bennett. And we’ll have to question your wife as well.’

  ‘Exactly.’ He grins cynically. ‘I had no reason to want my ex-wife dead, inspector. Our divorce was … not a mutual thing, but I accepted it. Besides, she had met Kenneth. He seemed a decent enough bloke. And what was most important to me was that he and Briony got on well and that it wasn’t his intention that I would be estranged from her. He was her stepfather and he would never be more than that.’

  ‘Do you have any idea who might have wanted to harm your ex-wife?’

  ‘Uhm … No.’ He stares at his hands. One of his nails is broken and there is a clot of dried blood under his nail bed. ‘I can’t think of anyone. I mean, Alicia was just a normal woman. Beautiful, yes, and maybe someone was jealous about that, but … she didn’t have enemies. She wasn’t like that. But still … who could do that to my beautiful Alicia?’

  There is a movement behind me and, as I turn my head, I see a small woman on the doorstep, her eyes on Trevor with an expression of disgust and despair. It is clear that Trevor hasn’t stopped loving his first wife and that his current wife is only too well aware of it.

  10

  DI Maloney seems relaxed about the on-going dispute in his parents-in-law’s divorce. Unprompted, he confides in me that he is relieved that his wife has stayed in Weymouth to support both her father and her mother. She seems hopeful that she can mediate between the two of them and achieve an amicable outcome for them. Maloney is doubtful.

  ‘It transpires that my wife’s mother has had a long-term relationship with another man, who was also married and had a family. It is even in doubt whether Brian, my brother-in-law, is actually my father-in-law’s son.’

  ‘That’s terrible.’

  ‘Yeah, of course, but as the affair is out in the open now and the man in question has died of a heart attack, why bother breaking up a marriage that was good, as far as we all know?’

  ‘She lied to him.’

  ‘Yes, but she has confessed now, hasn’t she?’

  I shake my head, wondering if he really believes his own words. After all, does a confession, albeit forced by the man’s death, heal the wounds or cover the lies?

  ‘Anyway, Tregunna.’ He rubs his hands together as if they have gone cold. ‘What’s the latest on this murder case?’

  ‘I have scheduled an extra briefing in about two hours.’

  ‘So I’ve been told, Tregunna, but I would like to know now. I don’t like to be confronted with surprises I have no forewarning of.’

  I nod, irritated, but have to admit that I would feel exactly the same. ‘No problem.’

  ‘I may be late tomorrow morning again, if the missus calls me to collect her. I hope you can do the morning briefing tomorrow.’

  ‘I have a hospital appointment later in the morning.’

  Maloney nods gravely. ‘How are you doing? I meant to ask you for ages, but … you know …’

  ‘I’m doing well, thank you.’

  ‘Good.’ He nods, annoyed and relieved at the same time.

  We
enter the incident room where Jennette Penrose is hunched over her desk, watching blurred black and white images on her computer screen. Her expression tells me that, for some reason, her mood has sunk below freezing point and I can only hope that Maloney acts diplomatically enough not to trigger her anger. She is one of those people who is paranoid about privacy and fears that ‘Big Brother’ knows too much about all of us. So she hates watching CCTV footage as she thinks she is secretly spying on innocent people. She asked me once what to do if ever she saw someone she knew on one of the tapes and found out that he or she had committed a crime.

  ‘If it has nothing to do with the particular case you are investigating, then I’d leave it to your own judgement, Jennette,’ I replied, which I knew, didn’t help her.

  The memory stirs something else in my mind. If someone in Maloney’s wife’s family had known about the secret affair, what would that person have done? Tell everyone or keep quiet about it? Either way, there seems no right or wrong in matters like that.

  Briefly, Penrose looks up, raising an enquiring eyebrow, but she just nods by way of greeting. Her shirt is creased and one of the buttons is open, revealing a white vest underneath.

  ‘Hi,’ Maloney says casually, but I suspect he’s forgotten her name. She seems to think so too, as I see her stiffen. She begins to scratch vigorously at her head. Her mouth moves noiselessly and she mutters something under her breath as if she is talking herself into getting up and running away. Clearly, she is disappointed that Maloney isn’t staying away for the rest of the week. The two have never really got on and she sees no point in hiding her feelings about him. But apparently oblivious to her hostility, Maloney ignores her in his usual way. Perhaps just as well.

  At the end of the room, he stops and stares at the photo of the victim which is attached to the top of the board. ‘Who found her?’