COVER THE LIES: A TREGUNNA CORNISH CRIME NOVEL

by Carla Vermaat

  The sharp click-clacking of high heels on the tiled floor announces the appearance of Marge. She is in her late forties, dressed in a black skirt which covers her knees and a long-sleeved white blouse. Her glasses are an old-fashioned style, her lips as pink as the small scarf tied around her neck.

  ‘Wilbur?’ Her voice is sharp and unforgiving. ‘What is your problem?’ She makes it sound as if he is the problem, and that his days at the petrol station are numbered.

  ‘Mr Tregenza would like…’

  He pauses as she turns on one high heel. I am half expecting it to brake and to have to catch her in my arms as she falls.

  ‘Actually, I am Andy Tregunna.’

  ‘Uhm … Marge Flynn. I am the administrative assistant and book-keeper for Mr Reeves, who is currently on holiday.’

  The till rings as Torrington opens it. The customer, a short man in his fifties, clearly well known to Torrington, patiently waits for his change and a for his loyalty card to be stamped.

  I produce my ID card and Marge Flynn stares at it over the rim of her glasses. Her bottom lip drops as she studies the card, then there is a flicker of excitement in her eyes and her cheeks turn a shade of red.

  ‘Is this about the murder?’ she blurts out, making the departing customer pause halfway to the door. ‘The woman they found in the fishing lake?’

  I give her a brief nod. ‘Yes Ms Flynn. I would like to have a look at the camera tapes from last Saturday night.’ I am aware that the customer has stopped to follow the conversation. Marge Flynn looks round as if she expects a whole army of policemen to emerge. Meanwhile her brain is working overtime. Clearly, she doesn’t want to consider the possibility of there being any connection between the petrol station and the murder.

  ‘Ehm, yes,’ she says hesitantly.

  A husky gasp from behind the counter makes us turn to the sales assistant who is now slumped back on his seat and stares at me with a mixture of horror and panic.

  12

  I am still light-headed when I leave the hospital. I was planning to visit Becca after my regular check-up, but I am not in the mood. I can’t bear the thought of sitting at her bedside, staring at her pale face, feeling the coolness of her skin, listening to her shallow breathing and wondering about the quality of her life.

  Becca is a young woman but her existence is fragile, dependent on others for her life support and like a white lily floating on a pond, there are hidden daggers beneath the surface. Nine months ago she was shot by a bullet that was meant for me. A team of surgeons fought desperately to save her life, and although she didn’t die, but they weren’t able to do more than remove the bullet from her brain. She slipped into a coma and hasn’t woken up since. At first, there was some hope, but gradually that has been replaced by disappointment and, eventually, acceptance of her condition.

  I can’t go and see her. Not now. My head is spinning. Having seen Roy Wood today has had much more impact on me than I ever expected. His skin ashen, eyes hollow, body slumped in a wheelchair, has shocked me to the core. The rapid deterioration of his body reminds me how fragile life really is.

  Roy and I had the same operation on the same day less than a year ago. Unlike me, he had chemotherapy afterwards, followed by an additional course of radiotherapy. None of the treatments worked for him.

  I know I will never see him again.

  I almost feel nauseous when I walk back to my car. Shock, pity and frustration. All are normal, logical emotions but there is also something else. From the moment I saw Roy today, I felt a sharp spasm like a hot wire snaking up from the base of my spine, hitting every nerve.

  Fear. Simple, raw fear.

  I sit in my car, key already in the ignition. I clench my fists and rest my forehead on the steering wheel. I can’t go home. I can’t be alone. I know I’ll sink back into the black swamp where I found myself months ago, after the operation. I don’t want to go back to that awful time because this time, I know I won’t be able to climb back out of it.

  The busy traffic takes me out of Truro. I take the exit at Kingsley Village in Fraddon, staring at the front of a coffee shop. The smell of coffee appeals as much as the desire to be surrounded by happy, healthy people. Looking at them will undoubtedly make me feel even sorrier for myself but I’ll go mad if I go straight home.

  My phone vibrates. It makes me feel reconnected to the real world. Without looking at the number or the name, I press the red button. I don’t want to talk to anyone. I won’t be able to concentrate on a conversation. The desperate eyes of Roy Wood keep swirling in my head. I’m sure the caller will be able to hear a tremble in my voice. There is also a real possibility that I will start crying if it’s my mother.

  The caller seems determined to speak to me. Briefly, I contemplate switching the phone off altogether. It vibrates again. I look. It’s Penrose and it means work. Distraction.

  I press the green button and take the call.

  She says she is sorry to interrupt whatever I’m doing, but I had insisted that she should call me with any updates. True to her word, she tells me about the latest developments in the investigation. New statements have come in, waiting for me to read and add to the computer system. She asks how soon I’m coming back to the station. I almost tell her about Roy Wood and the miserable state I’m in and that I won’t be going back to the station today, but she doesn’t give me the opportunity to interrupt her. Lowering her voice, she explains, almost apologetically, that she’s had a call from a neighbour and she has to go home to her father.

  As she finishes with a long sigh, I hear myself promising her that I will drive to the crime scene to talk to the owner of a nearby farm. She has studied the area on Google Earth and has discovered that one of the windows of the farmhouse is visible from the car park by the lake, hence it is possible that someone looking out of that window saw something at the car park. One of the detectives has already spoken to the farmer, Mr Carthew, but there is no mention in his statement that the question has been asked.

  It is pushing three thirty when I pull through the gates of Carthew Farm, dodging potholes and splashing through puddles before parking in the cobblestone yard. .The farm is situated on the hillside, with clear views towards the coastline, across the valley and, most significantly, down over the fishing lake. Fields stretch out towards the bottom of the valley where a small stream flows into the sea at Harlyn Bay. The farm itself is a cluster of old and new buildings, with a wet and dirty yard where a tractor is parked alongside a battered Mercedes. A black-and-white dog is watching my movements closely when I park on the grass verge beside the road.

  A baggy man in green corduroy trousers and battered old boots with mud stuck to the sides of the soles comes out of one of the buildings, stopping abruptly as I climb out of the car. He is probably in his seventies, with a thick mop of white hair and a wrinkled, weathered face in which his eyes are barely visible. Looking down at my shoes, he motions that there is no need to get them dirty

  He leans over the metal gate between us. ‘Are you looking for the holiday cottage?’

  I’m certain a holiday cottage hasn’t been mentioned in his statement either.

  ‘Uhm, actually …’

  He shakes his head and continues in a disgruntled tone: ‘I don’t understand some of those fancy companies. They spend thousands of pounds on advertising, but they don’t seem to see the need to put proper instructions on their websites. You won’t believe how many people show up here in my yard to ask for directions.’ He pauses for breath. ‘You’re here for the weekend, I presume?’

  He looks over my shoulder as if he’s expecting to see at least a quartet of tired and bored looking children on the back seat of my car, their mother reclining in the front seat with her eyes closed and a migraine coming on.

  ‘I’d like to have a word with Mr Carthew.’

  He cocks his head. ‘Which one?’

  More surprises. ‘I wasn’t aware there’s more than one.’

  ‘I’m Vincent Ca
rthew,’ he says helpfully. ‘My son Derek’s gone shopping. He’ll be back at tea time.’

  ‘Do you live in the farmhouse?’ I ask, retrieving my ID card.

  ‘Yes.’ His easy manner has now completely gone, his eyes widen and the stern expression on his face seems set. ‘Police? Is this about the dead woman?’

  ‘It is.’

  ‘I’ve told you lot everything I know.’

  I nod. I have read his brief statement: he didn’t see, hear or notice anything on Saturday night. He watched TV and went to bed early, as usual. He wasn’t asked if, by any chance, he looked out of his window before closing the curtains. He didn’t offer that information either.

  ‘I would like to know what you can see from your house, Mr Carthew. You told my colleagues that you can’t see the lake, but I have noticed that there is a room upstairs …’

  The dog comes forward and sits down beside Carthew as if it senses that he needs moral support. Carthew's left hand digs automatically in his trouser pocket. He finds something that looks like a twig. The dog takes it, chews once and swallows, hoping for more.

  ‘We don’t use the rooms upstairs anymore. My wife can’t climb the stairs and, with all those cuts in health care nowadays, we couldn’t get one of those stair lifts installed. Besides, the children have all moved out and we’re using the dining room as our bedroom.’

  I try to recall but I can’t remember that a Mrs Carthew was mentioned, or a son, for that matter.

  There is something in the way he stretches his back and shoulders that makes me press on. ‘Where does your son live?’

  Putting his hands in his trouser pockets, he motions with his head. The dog briefly stirs in anticipation. ‘They live up the road. It’s half of Carthew Cottage. It’s is a converted barn. One part is our holiday let; our son lives in the other half. They take care of the letting. Cleaning and stuff, but the bookings are all done online.’ He shrugs almost apologetically. ‘My wife and I weren’t happy in the beginning. We weren’t so keen on having strangers on our land, but I must admit that it helps us financially.’

  ‘Is it possible to have a word with your wife, Mr Carthew?’

  ‘I don’t see why …’

  ‘I believe we haven’t spoken to her yet.’

  For a moment he looks like he is going to refuse. ‘That’s right, but …’

  ‘I have only a few questions, Mr Carthew. It won’t take long.’

  ‘She isn’t … I doubt if she’ll be able to help you.’ he hesitates, not meeting my eyes. Then he shrugs as if he’s aware that refusing won’t help either. ‘All right then. Just a few seconds, please. I’ll have to sort out something with Will first.’

  He doesn’t bother with any more information, but walks over to one of the barns and disappears inside. It takes him less than half a minute to emerge with a young man, as thin as a piece of straw, with matching straw-coloured hair, and a red face spattered with freckles. Hands hidden away in low slung jeans, he doesn’t appear to be keen on doing anything that involves any effort. He listens to Carthew's instructions as if he’s heard it all before, then shrugs sulkily and climbs onto the tractor. Carthew opens the gate and closes it behind him as the vehicle wobbles away on the muddy track.

  Carthew grins mockingly. ‘Best use the road, inspector, we wouldn’t want to spoil your shoes, huh?’

  He guides me in the opposite direction towards a track of patched-up tarmac with grasses and weeds growing down the middle. It leads between two shoulder-high stone walls overgrown with brambles and hawthorn. At one point the branches are broken and it looks like they have been pushed aside. A rusty iron gate hangs crooked at the end. He opens it, making a gesture to me to follow him to the house. As we walk along a short flagstone path leading towards the front door, which is clearly rarely used, I turn and look back over the valley. The fishing lake shimmers like a bright mirror, reflecting the sun and a cold blue sky. I can see a few parked cars and a person in a yellow fluorescent jacket walking towards one of the fishing shelters that are scattered alongside the water’s edge.

  ‘You can see the lake from here,’ Carthew explains defiantly, following my stare. ‘But not from inside the house.’

  Looking up at the only bay window on this side of the house, I make a mental note to check if he is right.

  ‘What happened there?’ Changing the subject, I turn and point at the damaged branches.

  ‘What? Oh, I dunno. Happens all the time.’ He shrugs indifferently. ‘Badgers, probably. Or sheep.’

  ‘Do you keep sheep, Mr Carthew?’

  ‘There’re in the field on the other side of the hill.’ He gestures with his thumb over his shoulder.

  ‘It will soon be lambing time, I presume?’

  He shrugs, as though recognising my ignorance. ‘That depends on the breed,’ he replies patiently. ‘Some are really early, even lambing in December or January. But ours are later.’

  He unlocks the front door of the house and goes in, taking off his boots in the small porch, calling, ‘It’s only me, dear. I’ve brought you a visitor.’

  There is no reply, but I can hear the soft tones of classical piano music and a voice humming along.

  His wife is sitting in a comfortable reclining chair by the window that looks like a framed oil painting of the valley. Acres of green fields are dotted with sheep, and bright sunlight is shining on the distant sea. She turns her head towards us. A ray of sun falls across the deep purple fabric of her dress, over her fragile hands and on the pearls around her neck.

  ‘This is a police inspector, dear,’ Carthew explains curtly. ‘He has some questions about the night before the woman was found in the lake. I have already explained that we sleep in our former dining room and that we can’t really see the lake from downstairs.’

  She nods vaguely, stretching out an arm to me as if she is a member of the royal family. Obediently, I shake a pale, weak hand with rings on three fingers.

  ‘I’m sorry I can’t get up, inspector. But please have a seat. Would you like a cup of tea?’ Her voice trembles and she licks her lips as though she is almost dying of thirst herself. ‘Vince, can you put the kettle on, please?’

  Looking uncomfortable, he duly disappears, his feet in just his socks silent on the old slate tiles and rugs, and mutters under his breath about him being a farmer, not a housewife or a maid.

  ‘What can I do for you, inspector?’ Mrs Carthew nestles her spine into the backrest of the chair and smiles, folding her hands together as though she’s preparing for a silent prayer. Her watery blue eyes are darting over me from top to toe. However, her expression is vacant and she doesn’t seem to be taking anything in. I am already starting to wonder if this visit is going to be a waste of time.

  ‘This is about Saturday night, Mrs Carthew. Were you at home as usual? All night?’

  ‘Of course we were.’ Her surprise seems genuine. ‘Where else would we be?’

  ‘You and your husband?’

  ‘Yes, of course. Vince has to get up early, because of the ewes, you see. Some are about to have their lambs. He checks them every so often.’

  ‘Aren’t the sheep in the fields on the other side of the hill, Mrs Carthew?’

  ‘Oh, are they? Oh yes, of course. Why do you ask? Is it important?’

  ‘Yes, Mrs Carthew, it might be important. Were you and your husband together all the time on Saturday night?’

  ‘Of course we were. Well, our son came round, of course, and they had a chat in the kitchen. I was here, watching TV, but I could hear them talking.’

  I frown. Clearly, the officer who interviewed Vincent Carthew failed to speak to his wife or to his son. ‘What time was that?’

  ‘Oh, I know exactly, inspector, because it was nine o’clock. We were about to watch something on television and Vince was annoyed. He never likes it when he misses the beginning. But I said we were recording it anyway, because he always falls asleep.’

  She chuckles as if she’s told me a secret, but he
r eyes are vacant. I understand her husband’s reluctance to let me see her.

  ‘What is your son’s name, Mrs Carthew?’ I ask gently.

  She giggles girlishly. ‘Don’t you know?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Well …’ She smiles and spreads her fingers as if she has just painted her nails, studying them as though she suspects that she has forgotten to paint one of them. Avoiding the question. ‘What was your question again? Was it about the ewes?’

  I am becoming aware that the gaps in Mrs Carthew's memory won’t be much of a help.

  ‘Did your husband and son go out that night?’

  ‘Why would they? It was pitch-dark. No, it wasn’t. It was full moon.’ She smiles and loses herself in thoughts that make her smile and frown. ‘I love it when the sky is clear and you can see the moon and the stars, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes, I do, Mrs Carthew. Maybe your husband or your son had to check on the ewes?’

  ‘Our Derek had just done that and he thought he didn’t need to do it again until the morning.’

  I nod, uncertain how to proceed. ‘Were you watching television from the chair you are sitting in now, Mrs Carthew?’

  ‘Of course, my darling. You know I do, because you always help me into it.’

  ‘Did you look outside?’ I ask, trying not to remind her that I am not her husband.

  ‘Of course. I have to keep an eye on everything, don’t I? If you don’t watch everything, you won’t notice what’s going on behind your back.’

  ‘That is very true, Mrs Carthew. Did you, by any chance, look outside on Saturday evening?’

  ‘Saturday? Is it Saturday today?’

  ‘No Mrs Carthew, it is …’ I stop, realising that there is no point in continuing. Even if there turns out to be something relevant in her statement, she won’t be a very convincing witness in court.

  Vince Carthew has appeared without making a sound. He places a tray on a small table next to his wife, nodding as if instructing her to do the honours.

  ‘How do you take your tea, inspector?’