COVER THE LIES: A TREGUNNA CORNISH CRIME NOVEL

by Carla Vermaat

  I shrug. ‘They were both stabbed. In a rural area. No CCTV, no useful witnesses. He must know the area pretty well.’

  ‘Do you have any hard evidence?’

  ‘No. Not yet. But it is too much of a coincidence to keep these as two separate cases.’

  ‘What about the MO? Alicia Poole was found naked, clothes gone. Torrington was pushed over the edge of a cliff. He was fully dressed.’

  ‘I am not talking about a serial killer who chooses the same kind of victims,’ I say patiently, ‘All I’m saying is that I think there must be a link between the two murders.’

  ‘Okay.’ He runs his hand through his hair, looking exhausted. ‘Let’s talk this through, then, shall we?’

  In the incident room, DS Ollie Reed is adding information to the white board. He sticks a photo of Carthew Farm onto the board and steps back as though he’s studying a work of art.

  Maloney points at the photo of the farm building, clearly not understanding.

  ‘So. Andy, convince me.’ He sounds like he needs to be brought up to date again. Perhaps he does. His interest in the case may be affected by his current problems at home because, although the divorce of his parents-in-law doesn’t involve him directly, it must put a strain on his marriage.

  The white board is filled with photos and copies of statements. Photos of Alicia’s closest relatives are lined up on the left-hand side. Kenneth Poole is beside her, Trevor Bennett is just above him with his wife Maureen next to him. There is a blurred photo of Briony, taken from her Facebook page. Denise Shaw stares at me from a coloured photo, on her red lips a smile as though she’s about to wink at me. There are several enlarged photos of the man Alicia Poole left Barrie’s Bar with on Saturday night. There’s a blank piece of paper with a big black question mark which relates to the man Denise saw talking to her friend in the Central Bar. There’s a photo of Carthew Farm with the names of the family, and photos of Arthur Bristow, Josh Warren and Eddie Rowse. Warren and Rowse already had their alibi substantiated by several of their friends and Bristow is no longer a suspect after his friend confirmed that he’d picked him up to have a drink at his home in St Columb, where Bristow stayed the night until his friend drove him back to his van on Sunday morning.

  I pick up a blue marker pen and add Wilbur Torrington’s name on an empty spot in the middle. ‘Torrington worked in the petrol station a stone’s throw from the Swan Lake.’ I add arrows. ‘

  ‘Is that all?’

  ‘I have no proof yet.’ I shake my head. ‘His body was found on the beach, below the cliffs. We haven’t seen the official post-mortem report or the forensic report, but I talked to the paramedics and I had a look at he scene myself. He had injuries from his fall, but there was some blood on top of the cliffs, which suggests that he was stabbed there. He didn’t die instantly and my guess is that his killer pushed him over the edge to finish the job. However, at that particular point, he didn’t fall down straight away. He more or less slid down the slope and only fell the last few meters, which was why he was still alive when he was found.’ I pause and look at his face. ‘Of course this has to be confirmed by the official reports.’

  ‘The motive?’

  ‘I haven’t got that far yet.’

  ‘Tregunna, I have to agree with DCI Guthrie that, at this moment …’

  I interrupt him. ‘Torrington was more than shocked when I came to the petrol station to collect the CCTV tapes after Alicia’s murder. Perhaps he knew Alicia Poole. Don’t forget that she went out in Newquay every now and then. He lived in Newquay. He may have met her in one of the bars. Maybe he fancied her. After all, she was a beautiful woman.’

  ‘I still can’t see why …’

  I shake my head. ‘Or perhaps he saw something that night. Don’t forget that he was working in the area until eleven. If he had gone home to Newquay straight away he would have been going in the opposite direction to Alicia. And as the lake is beyond the petrol station on the way to Padstow, he can’t have passed the fishing lake. But how much do we know about his whereabouts that night?’

  I feel like I’m a key witness in a court case where I have to defend myself and I don’t even know what the charges are.

  Maloney turns to me, a flicker of doubt on his face. ‘Does he appear on the camera tapes?’

  ‘I’ll ask Penrose to go through the camera tapes again to find out if he was in the same clubs as Alicia that night. Otherwise, we’ll have to look at all the tapes again now that we know the colour and make of Torrington’s car.’

  He shakes his head. ‘Tregunna, I still think…’

  ‘It is also possible that he knew her killer.’

  ‘Or Torrington killed Alicia Poole and someone else killed him?’

  ‘Far-fetched, I’d say, but it is also a possibility.’ I press my index finger under Torrington’s name on the board. ‘Philip, these two murders must be linked.’

  He sighs as though he’s dealing with an unwilling child. ‘So what do you suggest?’

  I hesitate. ‘There is something else,’ I say slowly, uncertain, as this is just a hunch. ‘A woman came forward with a rather strange story but, somehow, I believe this is significant.’

  ‘What is?’ He is getting annoyed and impatient. He glances at his watch and is about to say that it is almost time for him to collect his papers and go to the press room.

  I pick up a marker and write another name on the board.

  ‘Emma Davies,’ he reads, tutting his lips. ‘Who is that?’

  ‘She came forward with a story that didn’t make sense to me at the time, but looking at things now … it seems crazy but … it might be something.’

  ‘You’ve got two minutes.’

  ‘Mrs Davies returned from a family visit with her husband. He drove. When they came down the hill from St Merryn, on the bend, there is a small patch of grass on the verge. Not large enough for a car to park, but nevertheless, a car was parked there. Mr Davies cursed, as the car had no lights on and he hadn’t expected it to be there. In their headlights, they could see that there was someone in the car. At the wheel. Mrs Davies peered at the car, to try to indicate to the driver that he should find a less dangerous parking place. But he wasn’t looking at her. He was looking through a pair of binoculars.’

  ‘And the significance is?’

  ‘Mrs Carthew, from the farm halfway up the hill beyond the lake, claims that she saw white swans. Making love, she said.’

  ‘Is that the woman who took you for her son?’

  ‘Uhm … yes.’

  ‘So what makes you think that we should believe this woman? I mean, swans, making love, in the middle of the night? What medication is she on? Was she sleepwalking or hallucinating?’

  ‘I think they weren’t swans she saw, Philip,’ I say slowly. ‘I think she saw people. A man and a woman, perhaps a woman and two men, one of which might be our killer.’

  ‘She mistook a man and a woman for mating swans?’

  ‘There was a moon that night. Alicia might have been naked at that point. Her skin must have seemed white in the moonlight. Mrs Carthew got confused.’

  ‘She’s definitely confused, Tregunna.’ Maloney shakes his head, thinking how stupid I am.

  ‘And then who was the guy with the binoculars?’

  ‘I have checked it, Philip. There are marks on the grass verge. From there, you can see the car park at the fishing lake.’

  ‘Yes, but who is he?’

  ‘That’s not the point, Philip. What I’m trying to say is that he was there for a reason. He didn’t stop for nothing. And his eyesight must have been better than Mrs Carthew’s. She mistook people for swans, but the driver of that car knew better. He was playing Peeping Tom with his binoculars.’

  ‘What is …?’

  ‘My point is, Philip, that, the couple who Mrs Carthew and the driver saw, I think at least the woman must have been naked.’

  ‘Alicia Poole?’

  ‘I think that is highly likely.’
r />   ‘Naked? Do you know how cold it is at night?’

  I shrug. I have no answer to that.

  ‘Uhm … suppose your theory, however absurd, is true, then what has that got to do with Torrington? What does the husband of this woman say? Has he confirmed what she said?’

  ‘He didn’t look at the car.’

  ‘Pity. Do we have details of the car?’

  ‘No. It was all too fast for Mrs Davies. All she could tell me was that it was a smallish car, and a colour that didn’t stand out, as she would remember otherwise. And she didn’t see the licence plate either.’

  ‘A perfect witness.’ He grins cynically. ‘Does this answer my question about Torrington?’

  I shrug, well aware that my story is like a bad detective story. ‘I think Torrington was that driver with the binoculars. He owns a silver grey Toyota. That fits with Mrs Davies’ description. He might have seen the killer’s face. Or he knew him already and recognised him. Maybe he tried to blackmail him, but he misjudged the situation and got himself killed.’

  Maloney is quiet for a few moments. ‘Alright. I don’t really see why you think it may be worth investigating, but I know that, sometimes, you do have a good hunch. It wouldn’t necessarily follow it up as a possible link, but I know you. You won’t let this go until you get to the bottom of it.’

  He looks at his watch again. ‘Let’s leave this for now, shall we? I’ve got that press conference in a few minutes.’ A sardonic smile passes over his face. ‘Can you imagine the reaction if I were to sit in front of the cameras and reporters and say what people will say that we have a witness who said she saw white swans making love, but who were, in fact, our victim and her killer?’

  18

  The press conference has overloaded us with phone calls and new information that needs to be followed up and checked. Most of it turns out to be useless but we can’t dismiss any of it. The detectives are working overtime and, by the look on his face it is clear that Guthrie is worrying about his budgets. With two murder cases on our hands, there are few resources for anything else.

  Consequently, with some degree of reluctance, Guthrie tells me that I am in charge of a small team investigating Wilbur Torrington’s death, but emphasises that the death of Alicia Poole remains a priority.

  ‘Why?’ I ask him angrily. ‘Torrington deserves as much attention as Mrs Kenneth Poole.’

  He shakes his head. ‘You’ve heard me, Tregunna.’

  I press on stubbornly. ‘I also believe that these two murders are linked.’

  He smirks. ‘Philip told me about the white swans making love in the moonlight.’

  I open my mouth to explain but seeing his blank expression, I bite my tongue. Sometimes it’s better to keep quiet. We stare at each other like two predators fixed on our prey. Whether he is aware of this battle of wills or not, he speaks first, shrugging. ‘I suppose I can’t stop you pursuing your theory.’

  But this doesn’t feel like a victory.

  Half an hour later I drive to Wilbur Torrington’s last known address. Trewinnick Crescent is one of several rows of one-storey detached bungalows, scattered in a parkland area like matchsticks fallen from the shaking hands of a chain-smoker. With weathered slate roofs, gutters sprouting green moss and brown window frames, they look as though they need an urgent make-over. Evidently, someone has made a start in modernising them, but as far as I can see, they have got no further than replacing the front doors with white, glazed PVC doors which stand out against the dirty pebbledash on the walls. The residents of the estate represent a cross-section of much of modern day society: there are single mothers with one or two small children, young couples saving for their first step onto the housing ladder, - if the bonus-focused bank managers will ever give them the opportunity – elderly retired couples, and refugees from countries where normal life seems to have become impossible. Safety is normality for some, a luxury for others.

  Jeremy Torrington lives at the end of a row facing a paved area with three benches arranged in a triangle and, at one corner, a bin displaying a picture of a dog pooing. A very large, tall man hovers on the pavement. His dog is the size of his hand. He sees me looking at him and walks away.

  Most of the small front gardens have been transformed into private parking spaces. I park on the kerb and walk up to Torrington’s front door. I press the doorbell but I can’t hear it ringing. A frail old lady appears in the doorway of the house next door. She has thinning white hair and her bottom lip can’t stop trembling. In her hands, misshapen by rheumatic arthritis, she clings onto a walking stick with one hand and a tea towel with the other.

  ‘The bell is not working,’ she says with a brittle, shaky voice. ‘Are you here for Mr Torrington?’ Not waiting for an answer, she continues, ‘Joy asked me to keep an eye on things, in case you arrived early.’ She narrows her eyes. ‘Although I’m certain that she said that you were coming tomorrow.’

  ‘Does Mr Torrington live here?’

  ‘Yes he does.’ She pauses. Her watery eyes switch from my face to my car and back. ‘Are you not from the care home?’

  ‘No. My name is Andy Tregunna, Mrs …?’ I hesitate, contemplating whether to show her my ID.

  ‘Rendle. Betsie Rendle.’.

  ‘I want to have a word with Jeremy Torrington. Do you know if he’s at home?’

  She nods slowly. ‘Oh, he’s at home alright, but he is asleep. Joy had to go somewhere, but she’ll be back soon. She asked me to keep an eye on the house. The doors and windows are all locked, but you never know.’

  ‘Mrs Rendle, I’m not sure …’

  ‘She’s given him a sleeping pill, Joy.’ Mrs Rendle continues. ‘I expect she’ll be back in about half an hour. Jeremy will be awake by that time.’ She cocks her head, her eyes bright and intelligent ‘Is it important?’

  I nod.

  ‘In that case, you might as well come in and wait here. Joy always lets me know when she’s back.’

  ‘And Joy is?’

  ‘Jeremy’s daughter, of course. She and Wilbur take it in turns to look after their father.’ She shakes her head as if she’s amazed by my ignorance. ‘He has Alzheimer’s. A rather desperate situation for the family. That’s why I thought you were from the care home. They’re supposed to come and see how … bad he is. But do come in. I’ll make you a cup of tea while you wait.’

  I follow into a sitting room and feel the gloom of old age descend on me like an invisible veil. The room is dark, furnished in the sixties. Nothing has changed since then. Barely used. The carpet, furniture and walls have different flowery patterns, making the room feel claustrophobic. The curtains have bleached vertical lines where the fabric has been exposed to the sun. They’re half drawn to keep out the light. Or intrusive eyes.

  Emerging from the kitchen, she pushes a blue trolley in front of her. Teaspoons rattle against the crockery as she negotiates the threshold. On top is a tray with china cups and saucers, a glass jug half filled with milk. In a basket beneath, beside a teapot covered in a flowery tea cosy, is an open biscuit tin with a flower print on the sides, loaded with muffins in pink paper cases. Enough to feed an army.

  Slightly out of breath, she places the trolley between us. Her hands shake as she places the tray on a small side table. Her legs wobble as she slowly sits down and presses a button on the remote control of an electric reclining chair. It has a pocket on each side, in which is a flowery case for glasses and a folded newspaper. Today’s. The chair hums until she is in a comfortable position with her feet dangling above the floor.

  I clear my throat. It is twenty minutes after I rang the bell. ‘Mrs Rendle …’

  ‘The tea has to brew another few minutes, but please help yourself to a muffin. Apple and cinnamon. My husband’s favourites. They’re home made.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘If you’re not from the care home, and clearly you aren’t, then why are you here, Mr Tregunna?’

  ‘I’m a policeman, Mrs Rendle. I need to speak to
Mr Torrington.’

  ‘I see.’ A lively sparkle brightens her dull eyes but she doesn’t seem to be curious or nosy.

  I lean towards the muffins; I might as well have one while I wait for Torrington’s daughter.

  ‘My husband died fifteen years ago,’ Mrs Rendle says, out of the blue.

  I sigh. The home baking comes with loss.

  ‘He walked to our car which was parked in front of our house. He waved a kiss to me, like he always did in the morning, before he went to work. He climbed in the car, started the engine, but he never drove away. My neighbour called me ten minutes later. The car was still running and my husband was slumped behind the wheel. The doctor said it was so sudden that he didn’t think my husband felt it coming.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘As you can understand, inspector, it was a terrible shock. But my neighbours were brilliant. Jeremy and Rose were rocks for me. Somehow, I pulled through, but I couldn’t have done it without them.’ She pauses briefly. ‘We never had children.’

  A life in a nutshell.

  ‘How long have you lived here, Mrs Rendle?’

  ‘Over fifty years. We came here when these houses were built. Jeremy and Rose came much later when Wilbur and Joy were both already married.’

  ‘Wilbur was married?’ I interrupt.

  ‘Well, yes, that’s what Rose told us, but … it’s funny that you should query that, inspector, because I remember thinking that it was odd that she was always showing me Joy’s wedding photos, but I barely saw any of Wilbur’s. Anyway, I don’t think his marriage was a success because he came back to live with his parents again. That was on the same date, exactly two years before Rose died.’ Her face contorts as she remembers. ‘She went out shopping and never came back.’

  ‘She disappeared?’

  ‘O no! It was a horrible accident. A lorry driver reversed in one of those narrow streets in the centre of Truro. He didn’t see her in his mirrors. She was … crushed between his truck and a wall.’

  She stops for breath, shivering and fumbling with her hands.

  ‘It was a horrible accident. Jeremy and Rose were very close and Wilbur was a great support to his father after his mother died. I suppose Wilbur found it convenient too because after that, he didn’t bother looking for a place of his own and his father was happy with his company and it suited Wilbur too.’