COVER THE LIES: A TREGUNNA CORNISH CRIME NOVEL

by Carla Vermaat

  ‘No sugar, please, Mrs Carthew.’

  ‘I’m not sure if she can help you with your enquiries,’ Carthew says slowly.

  ‘No,’ I say gently. ‘I understand.’

  His wife claps her hands like a teacher demanding the attention of rebellious pupils. ‘I was upstairs, Vince! I wanted to see where you and that young man were going, you see.’ Her voice is high with a note of anger. ‘You always sneak out with him. I know it! You won’t even tell me …’

  ‘I was with Derek, love, our own son Derek,’ he says calmly, without raising his voice, his face expressionless. He has clearly given up arguing with her.

  ‘Who is Derek?’ she asks, angry because she feels left out.

  Her husband looks embarrassed. Despondent. Pained. His eyes move around the room, focusing on the clock on the opposite wall, the blank television screen, but his mind is elsewhere. He wants to be elsewhere.

  ‘You understand now, inspector?’ he says lamely, avoiding my eyes.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I nod, taking my tea and wishing I hadn’t accepted it.

  ‘I saw them, you see. Down by the lake.’ Mrs Carthew claps her hands in enthusiasm. ‘They were beautiful.’

  ‘Were you upstairs, Mrs Carthew?’ I ask, really jus to break the silence.

  ‘She can’t go upstairs anymore, inspector,’ Carthew interrupts.

  His wife giggles again, clamping her hand over her mouth like a naughty schoolgirl. ‘Of course I can go upstairs, you silly man! I’m not even thirty years old! You keep saying that I can’t climb those stairs, but I can. And I do it, when you’re not looking. I can see so much more from the window upstairs!’ She chuckles, a faint blush over her cheeks. ‘I saw them that night! They were so beautiful!’

  ‘Inspector, please don’t pay attention to what my wife says. She will tell you this today, but tomorrow it will be a totally different story.’

  ‘I saw them, Vincent.’ Her eyes have come to life. I can see fury and frustration in them and for some reason, I am inclined to believe her. ‘You didn’t see them, Vince, because you were asleep. I went to our bedroom upstairs, you know. I don’t understand why we sleep in the other room. Is it because of your knee?’

  ‘Yes love,’ he says gently. ‘It is because of my knee.’ He smiles sadly, then looks at me and adds in a low voice: ‘I had a knee replacement seven years ago.’

  ‘You were snoring so loudly that you might have disturbed those lovely creatures at the lake.’ Her eyes are shining and a happy smile trembles on her lips. ‘They were so beautiful.’

  ‘Who were beautiful, Mrs Carthew?’

  ‘Oh! Why do you keep calling me Mrs Carthew? I’m Molly! You know that, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes of course, Molly. What was it that you saw, down by the lake that was so beautiful?’

  ‘The swans of course. So bright and white in the light of the moon. I could even see their reflection in the water. And they moved … sometimes gently … as if … as if …’ She frowns and stops, uncertain suddenly, clearly trying to work out whether what she saw was real or a long-forgotten memory. She looks at me thoughtfully. ‘Don’t they say that swans have only one male or female in their life? When one dies, the other never finds another mate? Well, I could see how much they loved each other!’ Her eyes sparkling, she smiles, licking her lips.

  ‘That is very helpful, Mrs Carthew. Thank you for the tea, but before I go, is it possible for me to have a look out of your window upstairs?’

  ‘Of course, inspector. Everything is clean and tidy.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘But I’m sure you don’t have to go yet? I thought you were staying for lunch. I’ve cooked a lovely joint this morning. There is plenty for all of us.’

  ‘We’ve already had lunch today, my dear, and I’m sure the inspector’s had his as well,’ Carthew says with an apologetic look at me. ‘It’s almost time for our tea.’

  Rising to my feet, I smile at her. ‘Thank you for the offer, Mrs Carthew, but as your husband said, I already had lunch.’

  ‘No problem, my son.’ She chuckles again, her cheeks pink and eyes gleaming. ‘Those white swans were all making love, my dear, it was so lovely to see. So romantic.’ She pauses and frowns, as though something is worrying her. ‘Those swans … in a way, they looked like … people. Real people.’

  13

  Despite the age of the petrol station’s surveillance system, the images are surprisingly clear and sharp. Penrose has spent hours going through the tapes, only persevering because of her usual stubbornness. Every now and then stopping to stretch her muscles, her demeanour telling me that she’s nearly given up, but she doesn’t. The fact that Guthrie told her that it would probably be a waste of expensive police time, has only increased her determination. Eventually, she drops three piles of print-outs on my desk, neatly stapled in the top corner. Her face is flushed, but I can’t tell whether it is caused by tiredness or triumph. She pulls a chair up next to me and leans forward, resting her forearms on my desk as she waits, watches me flick through the papers. Two sets have three columns: Time, Licence plate number, Make of car. The third has one extra column, headed Returned.

  ‘This is better than I expected, Jennette,’ I say, hoping that she can’t hear any doubt in my voice.

  She scrutinises my face. ‘Do you think so? So far, of all the cars passing the petrol station that night, there is only one car that can be identified.’

  ‘Okay, but it’s a start,’ I say, suspecting that I am saying exactly what she is thinking.

  She points at a printed image of a white van. It has a logo on the side with a picture of a fish and the company name underneath it; the address and phone number aren’t clear, but Penrose has already found them on the internet. ‘This van drove past the petrol station in the direction of the fishing lake at about quarter to twelve on Saturday night. However, we don’t see the van going back.’

  ‘We’d better not tell Guthrie or Maloney at this stage.’ I know that I sound more like a boy scout than a mature police officer, but I think it is what she needs to hear.

  I glance at my watch. ‘Let’s go, Jennette.’

  ‘What? Now?’

  ‘We both need some fresh air.’

  ‘Right.’ She sounds pleased, but doesn’t show it.

  ‘Do we have the address?’

  ‘Of course.’ She’s typed it in her mobile. ‘It’s a company that supplies fishing gear. It’s based in St Dennis. You know, where they’ve built the new incinerator.’

  She drives with her usual impatience, bent forward towards the window screen as if she’s trying to make the car go faster. A heavy-metal band on the radio is trying to burst my eardrums. She only turns the sound down when I ask if she has any further information.

  Arthur Bristow is the owner of ABAS, short for Arthur Bristow’s Angling Services, a company that supplies fishing equipment to shops throughout the county and to professional and casual fishermen. We find his warehouse on a small industrial estate on the outskirts of St Dennis, about 10 miles inland from Newquay. Several clay pits are scattered around the area, but none is visible from the road but if you park alongside the road and look down to the valleys, you can see the man-made lakes. The water has a bright turquoise colour that reminds me vaguely of a tropical beach.

  A dirty white van is parked in front of unit 2B. The sliding door on one side is open and inside there are boxes stacked one on top of the other. A tall man is leaning against the back of the van, talking to the driver of a small refrigerated van that has prints of richly filled sandwiches and rolls on the sides. It makes me realise that I am hungry.

  The tall man has a few thin strands of blond hair combed across his head. Otherwise, the bald shiny scalp is covered with scabs where he forgot to duck. His grin is wide and shows yellowing teeth and one with gold crown.

  Their banter stops abruptly when we park opposite the door with a board with a picture of fish above it. It is definitely the same fish as the one pr
inted on the side of the van caught on the petrol station camera. The sandwich van driver shouts something, winds up his window and drives to the corner of the car park, where a similar, smaller van is already parked. Two small conifer trees in purple pots on either side of the door are suffering from severe dehydration.

  ‘I could do with something to eat,’ Penrose announces, getting out of the car. ‘I’m going to find out if I can get something from that sandwich company. Would you like anything?’

  ‘A BLT if they have one.’

  ‘I won’t be long.’

  She nods, already walking away. Above the garage door is a sign. ‘Cornish Artisan Food’. I wonder what the actual meaning of the word ‘artisan’ is.

  The tall man closes the van’s sliding door and enters his premises, apparently oblivious to the fact that he has visitors. Two seconds later, he emerges with three boxes stacked under his chin.

  ‘Mr Bristow?’

  ‘Yes?’ He places the boxes on the tarmac and scratches his head, finding a bunch of keys in the pocket of his jeans to unlock the rear double doors of his van.

  ‘My name is Tregunna. Does this vehicle belong to you?’

  His eyes flick up and down, sizing me up. ‘Half is mine, the other half belongs to my wife.’

  ‘The wife is better than the bank, I suppose,’ I reply lightly.

  His face darkens. ‘I’m not so sure of that. It only works until you fall out.’

  He opens the van and places the three boxes in an obscured area with more boxes. Locking the door with his keys.

  ‘Mr Bristow, would you mind if we go into your office?’

  Raising his eyebrows, he looks at me suspiciously. Thoughts cloud his face as he tries to figure out whether I am a tax man or a health inspector. ‘Eh … what are you after?

  ‘My name is Detective Inspector Tregunna, Devon and Cornwall Police. I would like to ask you some questions.’ I hold up my ID card. ‘My colleague will join us in a minute.’

  His head jerks towards the building opposite of his unit. ‘Is it about those guys?’

  ‘Which guys?’

  ‘Oh. Clearly not. Never mind.’

  ‘Which guys?’

  ‘Sorry, my fault.’ He scratches his head. Uneasy. ‘I just assumed it was about the guys from number 4. A group of bike riders. You know … or perhaps you don’t know … like in Easy Rider.’

  ‘Easy Rider?’

  ‘A film. Before your time perhaps.’ He shrugs. ‘Anyway, it was rather silly of me to think of them immediately. They’re good guys. They don’t do any harm. They just gather here to work on their bikes and have a beer. But …’ he gestures towards a place behind me, ‘there are always people complaining, although they only see the exterior. Black leather, long beards and tattoos everywhere. You know.’

  ‘This isn’t about them.’

  ‘Okay.’ Once more he shrugs. His body language tells me that he isn’t concerned about the reason for my visit. Evidently, someone with a clear conscience, unless he is a good actor.

  ‘My office then.’ He grins and I follow him inside, where the floor is covered with pieces of cardboard, piles of boxes in different shapes and sizes on top of them. It feels like a labyrinth without any escape routes.

  ‘You’re lucky,’ he says over his shoulder. ‘I was just going to Penzance and I wasn’t planning on coming back today.’

  ‘I have your address in … St Blazey.’

  ‘Not anymore.’ He unlocks a door that has several dents in it. ‘The wife has kicked me out.’

  That explains his remark about who owns the van. For his sake, I hope his wife is not the revengeful type.

  His office is a small room at the back, with no windows. Cobwebs cling to a light bulb that hangs down a plastered ceiling that has come loose at the corners. Someone has tried to prevent them falling down by hammering large nails in them randomly.

  ‘It won’t come down,’ he predicts, following my gaze. ‘Not today.’

  He pulls a chair up from behind the desk and gestures that I should sit down. He pushes away piles of papers on his desk and perches on the edge, one leg dangling, the other secured firmly on the floor to keep his balance.

  ‘Mr Bristow, I have reason to believe that you were at the fishing lake near St Merryn on Saturday evening.’

  He almost chokes. ‘Uhm … How do you know? And why?’

  I smile. ‘So you were there last Saturday night?’

  He looks thoughtfully before saying, ‘Since you already seem to know, there is no point in denying it.’

  ‘What time were you there?’

  ‘Uhm … late. About midnight.’

  ‘And what were you doing there?’

  He stares at his feet. ‘Uhm … this is rather embarrassing.’

  ‘Please answer the question, Mr Bristow.’

  He doesn’t ask why. ‘Well, I just told you that my wife has kicked me out. I … I have nowhere to go. I pay the mortgage on the house. I pay for the children. There is nothing left for me to rent a place for myself. I … uhm, most nights I sleep in my van.’

  ‘At that fishing lake?’

  ‘Anywhere, really. Officially it’s not allowed to stay in a car park overnight, so I try not to go back to the same place twice.’

  ‘Were you there all night?’

  ‘Uhm, well, actually, no, I wasn’t.’

  ‘What time did you arrive?’

  He scratches his head. ‘I can’t remember. Eleven? Twelve?’

  I pull the photo of Alicia Poole out of my pocket and hold it out for him to look at. ‘Did you see this woman, Mr Bristow?’

  He stares at it. ‘No. I have never seen her before in my life.’ His eyes avoid mine and he looks at the door as if he is planning to run out. ‘I have seen that photo in the paper, though. She was … was she found in the lake?’

  ‘She was. Were there any other cars in the car park when you were there, Mr Bristow?’

  He opens his mouth to reply, but the door sweeps open and Penrose is on the doorstep, her face flustered. She’s holding two brown sandwich packets against her chest.

  ‘Can I have a word, sir,’ she says, her expression serious.

  ‘Not about the sandwiches, I presume? Do you need any money?’

  ‘No sir.’ Her eyes drift to Arthur Bristow’s face. ‘It’s about the investigation, sir.’

  ‘Okay, will you excuse us for a moment, Mr Bristow?’

  ‘Of course,’ he replies. ‘How could I object?’

  I follow Penrose outside and she walks to the side of the car park, to make sure Bristow can’t overhear us.

  ‘What’s up, Jennette? Did you get a call from the station?’

  ‘No sir. I think we have to be very careful with Mr Bristow, sir. It might be best to contact Maloney or Guthrie to get a warrant.’

  ‘For?’

  ‘Mr Bristow, sir.’ She gestures over her shoulder with her thumb. ‘There’s a smudge on the side of the van, sir. I think this is blood.’

  14

  In films on television, a police officer in charge of a case might have an excuse to travel to some sunny part of the world to question someone loosely linked to the investigation. Sadly, this is not what happens in real life. Even if it were possible, I’m sure a trip to Portugal would be dismissed by Guthrie. I can understand why. In all honesty, the idea that what happened when Alicia and Denise were on holiday with their children in Portugal last summer might be important for this case is a bit far-fetched even to me. Yet, it keeps nagging at me and I know myself too well that I will only be able to let it rest once I’ve dealt with it.

  I decide to use Maloney’s office for my phone call to the Portuguese police. He has left the team with enough instructions to work through the night, while he collects his wife from Bodmin Parkway train station.

  I fear I shall have to talk to someone who speaks only a few of words English with an accent that is as hard to understand as someone from a foreign call centre. I pull the door shu
t and perch on the corner of the desk.

  Commissioner Ricardo Mateus Pimentao Pereira de Carvalho speaks fluent English, albeit slowly. I hear the rustle of paper when he goes quiet, wondering if he has found a file on Alicia’s case, or is reading a newspaper as we speak.

  Again, I needn’t have worried. Before I was put through to him, I explained to one of his officers what I wanted so after we’ve exchanged some pleasantries and formalities, he gets straight to the point.

  ‘I have here on my desk the file on Mrs Poole,’ he says slowly and precisely. ‘I can send it to you by email, but I’m afraid most of it is in Portuguese.’

  ‘Did Mrs Poole understand the accusation?’

  ‘I expect she did, yes. I wasn’t there at the time. But she signed her statement so we have to presume that she knew what she was doing.’

  ‘Okay. Can you tell me, in your own words, what happened?’

  I hear him sigh. ‘I will send the statement over to you anyway, so that your translators can tell you exactly, but for now … it was rather an unpleasant case, to be honest, Inspector Tregunna. An irresponsible act. But the charges have been dropped, so what can I do?’

  ‘She wasn’t charged?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I’ll have to find that out for you, inspector. But for now, I can tell you this.’ He clears his throat. ‘Mrs Poole and her friend were staying in Hotel Aqua Sun, which is situated on the edge of Tofani, a town with a lot of tourist hotels.’ He sounds like he disapproves of tourism altogether. ‘This is a little bit … outside the area where … the tourists usually go out in the evening.’ Another sigh. It makes me wonder how old he might be.

  ‘That night, the 22nd of July, as usual, as is my understanding, Mrs Poole went out clubbing with her friend. First, they had their evening meal at the hotel with the children, and then they took the children to their rooms and then got themselves ready to go out.’

  ‘You mean Briony, Mrs Poole’s daughter, and Jake Shaw, the son of her friend?’

  He rustles the papers. ‘Exactly. It appeared that this happened most nights. The boy, who was fourteen at the time, was more or less baby-sitting the girl.’