I nod. Jake Shaw had told me the same story, but I still make a note to check this with his mother as well.
‘That night was different, though, inspector. Apparently, the boy, or shall we say, the young man, was not so happy with the situation. And that particular night he refused to baby-sit the girl. His exact words, although translated now, were that he didn’t like watching girlie films with her all the time, and listen to her giggling. In reality, I believe that he had his eye on a young waitress and I believe that he lied to her about his age and arranged to meet her that evening. So, what happened was that he left the girl in the room she shared with Mrs Poole and he went downstairs where he met the waitress in the garden. She realised soon enough that he was a little bit too young for her and she left him. He then went back to his own hotel room, without checking on the girl. As it happened, there was some problem with the hotel’s electricity supply which caused a temporary disruption to the internet connection, which meant the girl wasn’t able to watch any films. As she didn’t speak Portuguese, she couldn’t watch our local channels so she got bored and decided to try and find young Jake, to persuade him to go with her to the garden where a local band and some dancers were entertaining the guests. Young Jake didn’t open the door and, given his earlier, rather furtive behaviour, she assumed that he had already gone downstairs. She went after him. Unfortunately, she didn’t have a key for her room, as her mother had taken it with her. She sneaked into the garden and watched the band and the dancers for a while, but then she got tired and went back up to her room to find the door was locked. She went to the reception desk, but there was only one girl working there and they couldn’t understand one another.’
He stops for breath and I take the opportunity to ask what has been nagging me since he started. ‘How come you know all these details? It wasn’t like it was a major crime?’
‘No, you are right. But this case was forwarded to me because we have a … how do I say this … an investigation going on about the tourists in this area and I received the files.’ He pauses briefly, and then adds, ‘I have a daughter of the same age as the girl and I found it unacceptable that a mother could leave a girl of that age on her own in a hotel room.’ His voice rises with his frustration. ‘Personally, I was of the opinion that Mrs Poole should have been charged and fined. To set an example, although these people can afford to pay the fine without it causing them any hardship.’
Sensing that this is a subject he likes to lecture on, I ask gently, ‘What time did Mrs Poole come back?’
‘Let me finish the story first, please, Mr Tregunna.’
‘Of course. Sorry.’
‘The girl went to the garden again to look for the boy, but he wasn’t there. It was late. The band had gone and so had the dancers. Everyone had more or less gone to bed. By the time the girl found someone who understood that she wanted the key to their room, it was very, very late. The night receptionist was sensible enough to send a female colleague to the girl’s room to check on her at regular times. Meanwhile, in Tofani, the tourists were still dancing and drinking. So were Mrs Poole and Ms Shaw. I’m not sure about this, as I have no proof, but I understand that Ms Shaw found … someone to spend the night with. Someone from England, I believe. It was normal for the two women to order a taxi to go back to their hotel, but this time Ms Shaw was … occupied elsewhere. Mrs Poole was alone and she couldn’t find a taxi. Oh, her version of the events is a little bit different from what the taxi driver told us. She claims that he attacked her after it appeared that she didn’t have enough money to pay for the ride and he suggested she paid him … in a different way. Ahum. You know what I mean inspector? Only he claims that he didn’t say that, but that, instead, he offered to take her as far as she could pay for and she could walk the rest of the way. It wasn’t far. Uhm, to be quite honest, inspector, I think that he was of the opinion that Mrs Poole could do with some fresh air.’
I must have made a noise, because he interrupts himself with a hint of sarcasm in his voice. ‘Yes, I agree that it wasn’t very polite of him towards our … foreign guests, but so be it. Anyway, he got another customer and he assumed Mrs Poole would try to find a more … understanding taxi driver. But it was already getting late and even taxi drivers have to sleep, don’t they? So Mrs Poole … well, she ended up at the police station, after she was found drunk in the streets. She was then arrested.’
‘What were the charges?’
‘In my country, we don’t like it when … ladies … behave like, shall we say whores, inspector. And believe me, she was so drunk she couldn’t even remember the name of the hotel she was staying in.’
‘You kept her in a cell?’
I glance at my watch. The conversation has already taken too much of my time and I don’t think I will get very far with this. It’s a dead end, unless the taxi driver followed her back to England and found her in a bar in Cornwall.
‘One of the duty officers spoke to her at about five in the morning around the time, when Mrs Poole woke up. She seemed worried about her daughter, so the officer who got the impression that she was a very young girl, did the only thing she could do and phoned the girl’s father, as we found his number in Mrs Poole’s handbag.’
‘How did you know he was the girl’s father?’ I ask, incredulously, making a mental note to check this with Kenneth Poole, and see his reaction.
‘Well, we assumed he was and that they were on holiday as a family. We didn’t know that the girl’s father was still in England.’ The Commissioner pauses and I can hear him rummaging through his papers again. ‘Mr Bennett was not very happy with the situation.’
‘Bennett? You spoke to Trevor Bennett about this?’
‘Of course. He’s the father.’
‘But Mrs Poole was married to someone else.’
‘We didn’t realise that at the time, I’m afraid. We called the mobile number we found and we spoke to a Mr Bennett, not to Mr Poole.’
I scribble this down, wondering if this might be significant in the case. Probably not, unless this caused some friction between Bennett and Poole, which might have led to Alicia’s death.
‘What time was Mrs Poole released?’
‘At about eight o’clock, according to this file. She had some coffee and she had sobered up, as you say. She made a few phone calls and was released without charges. Then she was taken back to her hotel to be reunited with the girl.’
His story has come to an end and I thank him. But he isn’t finished. ‘Why all these questions, inspector? This happened last summer and, as I’ve already told you, there were no charges, so Mrs Poole didn’t have to appear in court and she was free to leave the country when she wanted.’
Prior to my talk with the Commissioner, I had already explained our case to his colleague, but he doesn’t seem to have been told about it. ‘Mrs Poole was murdered a couple of days ago,’ I say, emphasizing every syllable. ‘We are following all lines of enquiry.’
‘She is dead? Oh, I’m so sorry to hear that, inspector, and, of course, I feel sorry for the poor girl. But to be honest, inspector, it doesn’t surprise me. These things happen too often and besides, she acted irresponsibly with regards to her daughter, don’t you think?’
15
By the time I leave Maloney’s office, the sun is breaking through the clouds that have influenced my mood since I woke up. The buzz of excitement has disappeared. Everyone was hopeful and optimistic when it was confirmed that the smudges on one side of Arthur Bristow’s van were blood. He was brought in earlier for questioning, or as was politely explained to him, to help us with our enquiries. Detectives are now checking his statement and making further enquiries, coming back with some answers and some more questions. Although Penrose keeps saying that finding Bristow was a combined effort of hers and mine that we found Bristow in the first place Maloney has given her all the credit. She deserved it, but all the same, it left me with an immature sense of frustration and jealousy especially as I’ve been given som
e boring errands to run for Guthrie.
The corridor smells as if a sweaty football team has just come in after a long training session. A half-empty bottle of diet coke has been left on one of the seats in the waiting area, an empty sandwich box is on the floor underneath it. A lettuce leaf drifts in the draught as the door opens in front of me.
.A woman in her late fifties comes in and leans against the desk. She has swollen feet in sandals with wide straps. The straps are tight and flesh comes up like padded fabric. One hand is clutching the lead of a small dog: a pale brown creature with long floppy hair and a wet nose sticking out from beneath it, eyes barely visible.
‘I would like to speak to a superior officer.’
The desk officer frowns. ‘Sorry, madam, there isn’t anyone available at the moment.’
It’s the same new recruit again, Annie or Ally. She’s on a fast-track course and has too little experience for the job. The only problem is that she thinks she knows it all.
‘But you’re the police. You are supposed to be here day and night.’
The desk officer manages a sickly smile. ‘We are here, madam. I’m talking to you, aren’t I?’
‘There’s no need to be rude, young lady.’
‘I’m not …’
‘Yes you are.’ The woman holds up her head with a touch of arrogance. Two pinks spots on her cheeks, she half-turns, inwardly debating whether to leave and go home. Then she turns back towards the desk. ‘Who is your superior?’
In fairness, the desk officer responds calmly. ‘That’ll be SpongeRob. But he is not here at the moment. In fact, He’s enjoying life on some exotic island with his wife.’
‘I can see he’s not here,’ the woman sneers, not bothering to say something about the nickname Rob was rightfully given when someone, possibly referring to the animated TV-series SpongeBob, joked that he inhabited such a wealth of information that it seemed as if he absorbed everything like a sponge.
Irritation is rising on both sides of the desk. The dog is the only one unperturbed, wandering round the hall, sniffing at every square centimetre as if he’s determined to examine everything.
‘Can I help?’ I step forward to face the woman, meeting a pair of eyes full of contempt. Annie, or Ally, isn’t pleased by the intervention; perhaps she feels that I’m undermining her position.
My bad start with her began even before SpongeRob had introduced us and I recognised her voice. I had overheard her earlier that day in a conversation with a colleague who had been explaining to her who to contact and forward messages to for different eventualities. I happened to walk past when I heard my name mentioned.
‘… and Andy Tregunna, you can forward cases like this to Andy.’
‘Tregunna?’ she chipped in. ‘Oh! I’ve heard of him. Is he the one with the poo bag?’
When SpongeRob introduced us a few hours later, I could only acknowledge her with a cold nod. I didn’t shake her hand or welcome her to her new job.
Now, she shrugs and offers another version of her sugar sweet smiles that aren’t reflected in her eyes.
‘Of course, be my guest,’ she says with enough sarcasm to make me wonder which part of the conversation I missed. Before I can ask, a mobile phone on the desk bleeps. As I turn towards the woman, I catch the screen of the desk officer’s mobile in the corner of my eyes. Colours of a game flash. Her limited playing time must be running out. It doesn’t seem to matter anymore that she’s supposed to be working. It isn’t even allowed nowadays to say something about it. Not even jokingly.
‘Are you a policeman?’ The woman turns to me almost aggressively.
‘I am. Detective Inspector Tregunna.’
With one hand brushing aside a brownish-grey curl from her face, she blinks slowly. ‘You’re not wearing a uniform.’
The words come out like an accusation. A former colleague always used to snigger when someone said that to him jokingly replying: ‘I’m too important to wear a uniform’ or ‘that’s because I’m currently working as an undercover agent.’ The humour will be lost on Annie or Ally and on the woman.
‘No, but how can I help you anyway.’
She stretches her back. ‘I want to report someone.’
‘That sounds serious,’ I reply, suppressing a sigh and wondering why I let myself in for this.
I want to disappear quickly back to the incident room and hear about the latest developments in the case. Instead, now I’m stuck in the entrance hall, knowing that there are so many more important things to deal with than listen to a middle-aged woman who is probably holding a grudge against someone.
I force a smile. ‘Shall we go to an interview room?’
A pair of sharp blue eyes shoots in my direction. Uncertain if I’m joking or not. A red flush falls across her face.
‘I’ve already made some notes for you, sir.’ Unexpectedly, Annie or Ally is being helpful, presumably because I’m gesturing toward the open door of interview room and relieving her of the woman and she can then turn back to her game.
As if on cue, her mobile phone bleeps again. She frowns at the screen and the light reflects back on her glasses. She turns it off and, with a hint of embarrassment, she shoves a piece of paper in my direction. Mrs Emma Davis. Number 63 Hockney Crescent.
‘Mrs Davis, will you come with me, please?’
‘Are we going into that room?’ Mrs Davis follows me in the interview room. The desk officer’s phone bleeps again. Otherwise, there is silence, like the world is holding its breath.
‘Do you take criminals in here?’ she asks with excitement in her voice.
‘Sometimes.’
‘Oh. Okay.’ Duly impressed, she moves swiftly to one side of the table. The dog sniffs the air. His claws slide on the slippery lino floor as he runs to keep up with her.
‘I want to report someone,’ she says firmly.
‘Oh.’
Leaning forward, she lowers her voice and adds, ‘Someone who spies on naked people.’
The dog obediently sits next to her feet. Well trained. Well behaved. Closing the door, I shut out the noise of a deep chuckle from the desk officer which seems to come from deep in her throat.
‘I guess it is difficult these days to find the right people for the job,’ Mrs Davis observes, her tone so innocent that I’m not sure if she means people in general or the new desk officer.
‘I think that applies to most jobs,’ I say neutrally.
She leans back and her shoulders relax. ‘I wouldn’t normally come to the police with things like this, inspector. Live and let live, that’s my motto. We all have our own funny ways and we all make silly mistakes. I wouldn’t like to get someone into trouble if there is a slight possibility that there might be a totally innocent explanation.’
I put my elbows on the table between us, and stare at her, waiting, rather than asking what on earth she is talking about. The feeling that I have been lured into this by the new desk officer creeps up on me.
‘I wouldn’t have come here, inspector, but then I realised that it was on the same night. And at the same place.’ She stops, uncertain about the lack of any response.
‘The same night?’
‘That’s right,’ she continues. Encouraged. ‘It was that night when that poor woman was killed. I’ve read about it in the paper.’
‘Yes.’ I shift on my seat, my impatience gone along with the feeling that I have been lured into this by the new desk officer.
‘Perhaps you can start from the beginning, Mrs Davies?’
16
There are several stories explaining how Bedruthan Steps got its name. One story refers to one of two cliff staircases used by miners to get to the mine workings. As evidence of mining has been found in the area, this seems the most likely explanation. However, romantics would rather believe that the name was taken from a mythological giant called 'Bedruthan' who used the granite rocks on the beach at high tide as stepping stones to go from one headland to the other.
The cold sting
s my face and my fingers as I get out of my car. The air is crisp, like a typical frosty winter’s day. Smoke rises from the chimney of a single-storey building on the edge of the car park; it currently houses a gift shop and tearoom.
Looking inland, the sky has darkened and I can see a shower hitting the distinctive shapes of the clay hills in the distance. I feel a few spots of rain, but the clouds overhead are breaking, their shadows chasing each other across the barren fields above the cliffs and out to sea. Towards the horizon, the sky is almost completely clear, with rays of sunlight shimmering over the water and creating bright halos around the clouds that look like cotton wool balls.
A young couple discovered the body of a man lying on a bed of rocks below the cliffs. As it was initially thought that he was alive, a coastguard helicopter was called out. Apparently, the man had been there since the previous tide, but miraculously he wasn’t washed into the sea because he was lying on a tiny stretch of rocky beach that remains dry when the tide is at its lowest point and there is no wind to whip up the waves. At least that is how the events are described to me by the car park attendant, after he has studied my ID card, suspecting that I’m trying to get free parking in the National Trust car park.
Tall and willowy, he seems to have the perfect shape for a job where he’s constantly exposed to all types of weather. His hair is cut short and his ears are red from the cold. One ear has a small gold ring in the lobe, and a police radio is attached to his belt.
‘Were you here when the body was found?’ I ask.
‘No. I hadn’t arrived yet.’ His face tells me he regrets having missed the excitement. ‘I arrived just before the ambulance came.’
I look around. The National Trust gift shop has its door open, but the windows still have the blinds down. A woman dressed in dark green is hoisting the black-and-white Cornish flag in the pole beside the building. On this cold and breezy day, everything comes to life slowly. Except for the man whose life ended on a beach below the steep cliffs. For the sake of his family, I hope he didn’t jump; it leaves too many unanswered questions and feelings of guilt too hard to deal with.
COVER THE LIES: A TREGUNNA CORNISH CRIME NOVEL Page 11
