COVER THE LIES: A TREGUNNA CORNISH CRIME NOVEL

by Carla Vermaat

  ‘Is the car park closed at night?’

  The car park attendant looks thoughtful and then reaches into his little cabin and plants a hat on his head, not noticing it is inside out. A label with washing instructions flutters in the wind.

  ‘No. There is an honesty box at the entrance of the cliff path,’ the park warden explains.

  There are five cars parked; his is on the verge behind his cabin. ‘Have those cars just arrived?’

  He scratches his head where the label flutters. ‘The blue one belongs to the lady who runs the gift shop, the white belongs to the couple who found the man on the beach, the other three belong to the people who work in the tearoom.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  He shrugs. ‘I’m here every day. I keep an eye out.’ His life, his job in a nutshell.

  ‘Okay, thanks. Are you here all day?’

  He shrugs stoically. ‘Till five.’

  ‘Where is the ambulance?’

  He points. Beside the tearoom is a rusty gate that opens to give access to a track that has a low stone wall on one side. The field is barren, dark brown clay dug up by a tractor to make deep trenches planted with what look like cabbage plants. I remember the distinctive smell hanging in the air when the cabbages are picked, the annoyance of drivers when they get stuck behind the tractors pulling the heavily loaded trailers.

  The field slopes down towards the cliff edge and at the bottom the top half of an ambulance is just visible above the wall. Trying to avoid the biggest chunks of clay, I walk alongside the wall and wish it was higher to give more shelter from the wind. Wishing I’d brought a woollen hat and some gloves, the cold northerly wind bites into my skin. I bury my hands in the pockets of my coat.

  By the ambulance are two paramedics in green overalls and yellow fluorescent vests. The passenger door is open and one of them half leans inside. The other one has spotted me and comes forward, arms stretched in front of him as if he is diverting traffic and trying to stop me.

  ‘Police. I’m Andy Tregunna.’ It’s too cold to take my hands out of my pockets and dig for my ID card.

  ‘Oh. Hi. I’m Dan.’ He smells vaguely antiseptic and dried blood. In his late twenties, he has a boyish smile to cover a natural shyness. ‘On your own? No partner?’

  ‘We’re short-staffed.’

  ‘Sounds familiar.’ He grins sympathetically. ‘I was just on my way to the tearoom. Can I get you some tea? Or coffee?’

  ‘Coffee will be much appreciated.’

  He nods and almost runs, looking forward to the warm shelter of the tearoom and the smell of freshly baked cakes.

  His colleague doesn’t appear to be affected by the cold. He is in his early thirties, with an open face, freckles on his suntanned skin and hair bleached blond by the sun and sea. His name is also Dan, but to avoid confusion, he says I can call him Matt. He is eating the remains of a sandwich, picking fallen lettuce and grated cheese off his chest. Straightening up, he pulls his ear and looks at me expectantly.

  I hold up my ID. He reads my name.

  ‘Ah, Tregunna! A true Cornishman!’ he says, crumpling up the sandwich packet, chucking it on top of his closed paramedics case and wiping his hands on his thighs, meanwhile looking over my shoulder as if he’s expecting to see a dozen of my colleagues pop up from behind the low wall that surrounds the field.

  He jerks his head towards the stretcher trolley with the shape of a body in a grey zipper bag strapped to it. The corners of the white sheet beneath the body bag are flapping in the wind. Crows and seagulls circle and squawk above us, every now and then swooping down to peck at the bare soil.

  ‘We’re waiting until we’re told we can take him away. Nothing we can do for the poor sod.’ Matt shakes his head. ‘Dead for a good few hours.’

  ‘Where was he found?’

  He shrugs. ‘The heli lifted him up from the beach an hour ago. They left him with us because they were called out to an emergency in Polzeath. Some surfers got caught in a rip tide. Two of them are missing.’

  I can’t help shivering. I never really understand the desire to go surfing, especially in the cold and wind and when the temperature of the water is far too low for my comfort.

  ‘Are you alone?’ It almost sounds like an accusation. ‘We were told to wait for forensics.’

  ‘I’d like to see the body.’

  ‘Of course.’ Annoyance clouds his face.

  ‘We didn’t get much information,’ I say by way of apology, not telling him that a red-faced Maloney had only shrugged with impatience when the call came in, and declared that he was too busy with the murder case to deal with a presumed suicide.

  Matt leans against the side of the ambulance, finding shelter from the wind. He shakes his head and blows in his hands.

  ‘I don’t think it was suicide,’ he says matter-of-factly.

  ‘I assumed he jumped.’

  So close to the edge of the cliffs, I can hear the constant rhythm of the waves crashing against the rocks nearly fifty feet below us. In the distance is the outline of a containership, just discernible on the horizon.

  ‘Nope.’ He reaches in the ambulance and retrieves a clear plastic bag from the passenger seat. Inside it is a blood drenched shirt. ‘The guys from the heli took it off him because they tried to save him.’

  ‘Save him? Was he still alive?’

  He sighs. ‘He was found on the beach by that young couple. They’re in the tearoom, waiting for police to take their statement. As soon as they found him, the girl climbed up the steps from the beach and called 999. No signal down there. Some time later, the coastguard heli arrived.’

  He shakes his head and adjusts his crotch again, looking thoughtfully. ‘At that point, all they knew was that an injured man was found on the beach. He was bleeding, but he was breathing. They tried to stabilise him, but he’d lost too much blood. He was unconscious when they hoisted him up here. Meanwhile, they’d received a call about the emergency in Polzeath. The two missing surfers. By that time, we were in the area and we were sent here to take over. Unfortunately, he was dead when we arrived.’

  ‘Did he say anything?’

  ‘You’ll have to ask the couple who found him. As I said, they’re in the tearoom.’

  ‘Have you found a suicide note?’

  ‘I don’t know anything about a note.’

  ‘Car keys?

  ‘I don’t know. ‘Listen, Tregunna, your questions are pointless, because I know as little as you do. All I can say to you that this isn’t a case of suicide.’

  ‘He didn’t jump?’ I ask, incredulously.

  He shakes his head. ‘Me and Dan have been here a while. We’ve had a look around and we’ve more or less worked out what happened to him.’ He points over his shoulder. ‘There’s blood over there. I reckon he was stabbed there and was then pushed over the edge. Or he stumbled and fell, but I’d say the person who stabbed him, chose an easy way to finish him.’

  ‘I can’t understand how he survived a fall from that height.’

  ‘You ’will see that something broke his fall. There is a bit of a plateau down there and he got stuck in some gorse or what have you. Then, by the look of the state of his hands and knees, I’d say he tried to cling on and perhaps he tried to scramble back up, but he slipped. From there, half of the rock is a bit like a slide, so from there he didn’t actually fall. Only the last two or three meters, I think.’

  ‘You obviously thought this through,’ I say, not able to hide my sarcasm.

  ‘As I said, me and Dan have had plenty of time to examine the place.’ Continuing, he grins wryly. ‘Forensics will have a job getting down there. Don’t say I haven’t warned you. That bit looks alright, but it is dangerous. I hope you won’t need to call us again if one of your men is too reckless.’

  I don’t respond to his mockery. ‘You didn’t realise that you were destroying forensic evidence?’

  ‘At that point he was already dead. It was only when Dan read the notes from the co
astguard, that we realised it wasn’t a case of a man jumping or falling from the cliffs.’ He shrugs by way of apology. ‘We only saw the stab wound at the side of his body when we searched for any ID.’

  ‘Did you find any?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Anything in his pockets?’

  ‘The couple who found him on the beach, also found a wallet lying beside him. They thought it must have fallen out of his pocket.’ He retrieves a second plastic evidence bag from the passenger seat. ‘Two ten pound notes, a till receipt from a superstore in Newquay, and one from another in Wadebridge. No bank or business cards.’

  ‘Mobile phone?’

  ‘I haven’t found one.’ He looks in the direction of the sea, clearly thinking that there isn’t much chance that we’ll find a mobile phone and, if we do, we won’t get it working.’

  ‘Car keys?’

  ‘In his trouser pocket. But there was no car in the car park when the couple got here.’

  ‘I’ll check that with them later.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Can I see him?’

  ‘Be my guest.’

  He opens the zipper of the body bag and I stare at a round puffy face. He is in his forties, shorter than the average man, and heavier also. His hair is dark and wet, stuck to his skull. His hands are dirty, with brown mud under his nails, dried blood in the corner of his mouth. There is something vaguely familiar about him, but I can’t remember if and where I might have seen him.

  ‘You know him?’ Matt has noticed my hesitation.

  ‘Not that I can remember.’

  He looks over his shoulder and a wide grin appears on his face. ‘Perfect, Dan,’ he takes a white mug from his colleague. ‘Brought one for the inspector?’

  ‘Thanks,’ I say, peering at the milky coffee as though I’m trying to make the milk disappear.

  ‘Okay.’ I retrieve my phone. ‘I’ll make the necessary phone calls.’

  He shakes his head as if he’s amazed by my ignorance. ‘No reception here, I’m afraid. I’ve tried too. You’d better use the phone in the café. The shop isn’t open yet, but there’s a landline in the tearoom.’

  People are arriving at the car park. I see the attendant collecting money from a couple with two children on the back seat. His hands are so cold that he has difficulty tearing a pink receipt from his ticket book. He slips it under the windscreen wiper and gives the driver a soldier’s salute, disappearing into his cabin as they drive away to park closest to the building.

  Some of the visitors are watching us from a distance trying to get a glimpse of what has happened. They’re more interested in what they can tell their friends than the tragedy of a man’s death. But it is too cold to hang about so they disappear into the tearoom. The odd brave couple walk the short distance the coastal path to take some photos from there. A few others don’t even seem to notice that an ambulance is parked at the edge of a field with young cabbage plants.

  ‘Where can I find the couple who found him?’

  ‘In the tearoom.’ Matt pulls his ear again. ‘I’ve given the girl something to relax. She is shocked by the discovery.’

  With the empty mugs in my hand, I walk over to the old, low building which houses the tearoom. There is a small garden looking out over the sea, sheltered by the building and an overgrown wall. The door is ajar. I hear soft music and laughter and the smell of home-made food reaches out as I enter the building.

  ‘You’re police,’ the woman behind the counter declares as if she has to convince me. She has frizzy hair the colour of beetroot mixed with chestnut brown. A badge on her breast pocket says her name is Lyn.

  ‘Hi, I’m Lyn,’ she says cheerfully, then realises the reason why I’m here and her face turns sad. ‘Sorry. It must be horrible to find someone like that.’

  ‘Can I use your phone, Lyn?’

  ‘Of course, this way.’

  I use a small office behind the kitchen to call the forensic team and return to Lyn who has poured me another cup of milky coffee. She has such a warm and sympathetic smile that I can’t ask her for black coffee.

  ‘Where can I find …?’

  ‘In the back,’ she waves a hand. ‘The girl is in quite a state.’

  As expected, there is little information to gather from the young couple who were unfortunate enough to go down the 149 steps to find the body on the beach. Dermot and Lizzy are in their early twenties, having their first holiday together. I hope the horrible experience won’t cloud their relationship. Looking at the girl, seeing a nervous twitch to her left eye, I foresee that she will have a hard time dealing with this. Dermot seems a bit tougher, but I can already see in his eyes that he doesn’t know how to comfort her. She sniffs and blows her nose repeatedly in a paper napkin. Lyn has supplied them with enough napkins for the next couple of days. I ask them if they noticed whether the man on the beach was still alive when they found him. They exchange looks. Lizzy starts sobbing and hides her face in a napkin, Dermot answers. ‘He tried to say something, but we couldn’t understand him.’

  ‘Did he speak a foreign language?’

  ‘No … I don’t know. It was just … there was blood in his nose and his mouth and … I thought at one point that he said ‘blood’, but that was all.’

  Lizzy sobs louder and Dermot takes her in his arms and strokes her head. I take their details and those of all the people in the tearoom and the gift shop, as well as the car park attendant who has come in for a coffee and, more likely, to get any more information about the event that will no doubt occupy his thoughts for the next few days.

  Back in the tearoom’s office, I use the phone again, this time to call the police station. Maloney is far from pleased when I tell him about the stab wound, which means that we have a second murder on our hands.

  ‘Do we know the deceased’s name?’

  ‘Nothing, so far.’

  He mutters under his breath. ‘Right, Guthrie isn’t here yet. You act as SIO, Tregunna, until further notice.’

  I stare out of a window that has four small panes of glass and looks out over the cliff tops and the sea. A blue and white fishing vessel dances up and down on the waves, followed by at least a dozen seagulls. I wonder if Guthrie will let me lead this case. Clearly, Maloney has enough on his plate with Alicia Poole’s murder.

  I swallow and let my thoughts rewind and play them again. All of a sudden, I know where I have seen the man who is now lying in a body bag in an ambulance waiting to take him to the morgue in Truro after the forensic team release him. It is Torrington, the sales assistant in the petrol station near the fishing lake.

  17

  I bump into Guthrie in the corridor. He is holding a takeaway coffee in one hand, tucking a bundle of newspapers under his other arm. I’m probably doing him a disservice but it seems to me that he is more interested in what the papers have written about him and his role in finding the murderer of Alicia Poole than he is in hearing how the detectives are getting on with the case. He rarely comes to the briefings to hear about our progress, our successes and disappointments. But in a way it is also a relief not to see him there with his piercing eyes as he tries to find someone to blame. He likes to be in the limelight and credited for the success stories in the media. His handsome face, his hair combed to perfection, his uniform meticulously clean, everything perfect in front of the cameras.

  ‘We’ve scheduled a meeting with the press in less than an hour,’ he tells me. ‘Mr Poole is going to join us to make an appeal to the public. He’s offering a reward, and I mean a significant reward, and hopefully someone will come forward with information that will lead us to the murderer of his wife.’

  ‘What about the Torrington murder?’

  He ignores the question, pretends he didn’t hear me.

  ‘Ken insists,’ he says, using Kenneth Poole’s first name casually as if to make me believe that they are best friends.

  I clear my throat. ‘I think that the two cases are connected.’

&n
bsp; He shakes his head. ‘As I said, it’ll have to wait. Talk to Maloney about it after the press conference.’

  I step back as he pushes past me, heading for his office, no doubt to prepare for the conference - comb his hair, straighten his tie, brush the dandruff from his shoulders. I shrug and turn away from him, knowing full well that I could have pressed harder to make him listen to me. Stupid. I’ll regret it later if I’ve bitten off my nose to spite my face, but I cherish the little triumph that I know something that he really ought to know too.

  I walk past Maloney who is leaning against the wall. He looks bored, listening to someone on the phone. For some reason, his expression suggests that he is speaking to his wife. Perhaps she has returned to Weymouth in another attempt to clear the air between her parents. Judging by his expression, I doubt whether he will be interested in my news either. Nevertheless, he turns and faces me, pressing the phone to his breast.

  ‘Have you got a minute, Tregunna?’

  I nod and wait until he finishes his call, which appears to be with his daughter. Sixteen years old and very opinionated about the behaviour of her grandparents, her grandmother in particular. She’s also of the opinion that her father at fault as well.

  He pulls a face as he slides his mobile phone back in his pocket and gestures to me to follow him to the incident room. ‘I gather you have a theory about Alicia Poole and the man they found at Bedruthan Steps,’ he says over his shoulder.

  ‘Guthrie thinks it’s better to treat both cases separately.’

  He puts his hands in his trouser pockets, clutching something with his left hand. ‘But you think otherwise?’

  ‘I believe that the cases are linked.’

  He frowns doubtfully. ‘Alicia Poole was the wife of a businessman. Torrington worked at a petrol station. She was 34, he was 45. What can they possibly have in common?’