COVER THE LIES: A TREGUNNA CORNISH CRIME NOVEL

by Carla Vermaat

  ‘I guess they were both glad that you were next door, Mrs Rendle.’

  ‘I hope so,’ she says humbly. ‘But …why are you here, inspector? Has something happened? To Wilbur?’

  ‘What makes you say that?’ I ask.

  ‘Because Joy was complaining about him. He’s off work today. He’d usually look after his father all day. But he said he had something to do so he asked Joy to come in for an hour or so.’ A deep frown has appeared between her eyebrows. ‘He said it would only be for an hour, but he hasn’t come back. Joy had to call in sick at work.’

  ‘What time was that?’

  ‘Some time after nine this morning.’ She gazes at an old clock on the wall ticking the seconds away. ‘He said he wouldn’t be long.’

  I clear my throat. As she seems to be quite close to the Torringtons, I may as well tell her something about what happened. She’ll hear about Wilbur’s death soon enough anyway and, by the sound of it, his sister Joy will need a bit of support as well.

  ‘I’m afraid Wilbur Torrington has been involved in an accident.’

  She swallows. Blinks, swallows again. ‘You’re not saying … How bad?’

  ‘Bad, I’m afraid.’

  She looks at me and I see a hundred questions on her face. None of them is formed into words, though. She shakes her head in disbelief, sensing the worst, not wanting to accept it.

  Her face has gone a few shades paler and her eyes look sad. ‘I was concerned, I must admit. And when I saw you arrive … I thought … I don’t know what I thought. I … I spoke to Wilbur last night. I had a cup of tea with him and his father. That’s why I baked the muffins. Wilbur loves them, but he only had one last night. Which was unusual for him. He seemed … distracted. He was looking at his mobile phone all the time, and that was quite unusual for him too.’

  ‘Do you happen to know the number of his mobile phone?’

  ‘Of course. I have Joy’s number as well. In case I need to contact them urgently when there is something wrong with Jeremy. Let me get it for you.’

  She finds a tattered address book in a drawer. She opens it and starts searching with the letter A. She’s nervous, shaking, deeply concerned. She turns the pages one by one. She’s not concentrating. By the time she has reached the letter J, she realises what she’s doing and stops.

  ‘Joy Spicer,’ Mrs Rendle mumbles. ‘I have Joy’s number here. Now Wilbur’s.’ She’s obviously listed them under Christian names.

  I type both numbers in my own phone and press the button to call Wilbur’s phone. It goes directly to answer-phone. It doesn’t surprise me, but I shall need his phone records.

  ‘I did wonder why he didn’t come back this morning. It wasn’t like him at all, but … You hear about it sometimes … I mean, people walk out for a packet of cigarettes and never return. All of a sudden, they decide to jump of a cliff or in front of a train. Or they get in their car and drive away, not looking back. I never thought Wilbur would do a thing like that, but I could understand his frustration with Jeremy. Jeremy needs to be looked after all the time. And I mean, all the time, inspector. Even when he’s gone to bed. They have to lock the windows and the doors, but he can be very determined.’ She shakes her head. ‘A couple of months ago, Jeremy cut open a cardboard box and wrote on it that he had locked himself in. He got the attention of a woman in the street. He told her that the key of the front door was under a flowerpot in the garden. He ran out as soon as she opened the door, knocking her over. She broke her wrist and it took Wilbur and Joy almost four hours to find him.’

  ‘Was he hurt?’

  ‘Not at all. He was tired. Exhausted. He’d walked all the way to the house where he used to live with his parents. He knocked on the door and explained who he was and they invited him in for a cup of tea. He told them stories about his childhood and they never realised that he could remember all that, but he couldn’t remember his own name or were he lived.’

  ‘It must be difficult to have to live with someone like that,’ I say gently.

  ‘Definitely. But when Wilbur … he wouldn’t have left his father like that.’

  ‘You say that he would never leave without warning; he wouldn’t do that to his father. What about his sister? Could he have left her to cope with him on her own?’

  ‘I am … I was pretty sure he wouldn’t, but, since last week … I don’t know, Wilbur seemed very different. Joy noticed as well, but she thought it had something to do with a woman. He might be in love, she said.’

  Whether she notices that I am using the past tense in relation to Wilbur, she doesn’t show.

  ‘Did he have a girlfriend?’

  ‘Not to my knowledge.’ She chuckles. ‘He was seeing a woman, I know that, but not in a romantic way. A fortune teller of sorts, she is. Wilbur believes in all that. He reads his horoscope every day. If there is something bad in it, and he has planned something, he cancels it.’

  ‘He wouldn’t walk under a ladder?’

  ‘Certainly not!’

  ‘How did he get on with his sister?’

  ‘Joy? A busy-bee, that girl. I don’t think they talk to one another that much. She rushes off to go home as soon as he arrives from work. She’s always very happy to leave their father in his hands.’ She nods thoughtfully. ‘Of course, she had her hands full with Jeremy and her own family. And to be fair, she has the worst time with him. When Wilbur comes home, it is more or less time for a meal and then Jeremy goes to bed. As I said, they give him pills to relax and to sleep. He can get anxious sometimes. Aggressive. I know a man up the street whose wife has the same condition as Jeremy. She gets up in the night and wanders round the streets, apparently looking for the school she used to go to when she was little. But the building was demolished years ago and there is now a big supermarket on the site. It’s easy to find her, though, sitting on a bench opposite the entrance, confused and crying.’

  She shakes off her thoughts, realising they have nothing to do with Wilbur. ‘I’m sorry. I’m drifting off, aren’t I? I suppose Wilbur and Joy were afraid that Jeremy would do things like that. With the pills, he seems to sleep all night through so Joy has her hands full with him during the day. And so of course does Wilbur, when he’s off work. And poor Jeremy …. Sometimes he is confused and he believes that Joy is his wife and … he can be aggressive towards her, you know. That’s why she locks him in every now and then and she comes to me for a cup of tea. To relax, she says, but I think it’s also because she likes to have a bit of a moan. Well, to be fair, her life isn’t so rosy anymore. This thing with Jeremy is ruining her life. That husband of hers doesn’t make it easier for her either. He thinks Joy does too much for her father. He says that the government should look after Jeremy, not his children. Jeremy’s worked all his life, paid his taxes and all that. He says that the government has a duty to look after Jeremy, not his children. But if he’s looked after so well by his children, they won’t help. Poor Joy, caught between a rock and a hard place. I never really liked her husband, nor did Rose or Jeremy for that matter.’

  She stops. Her face is sad and her eyes moisten as she wipes the back of her hand across them, not wanting to give in to tears.

  ‘No point in crying,’ she says abruptly. ‘I do feel sorry for Wilbur. He’s never had much luck in life. Bullied at school, Rose told me.’

  ‘What about enemies?’

  She shakes her head vigorously. ‘Enemies? Definitely not! Wilbur wouldn’t hurt a fly, inspector. He is a big softie.’ She shakes her head despairingly. ‘Always been, if you ask me. Certainly with Sandie. He adored that girl and he was over the moon when they got married, but it didn’t last very long before she cheated on him with one of his mates. His best man at their wedding, would you believe it?’

  I push away the memories of my own short marriage. ‘Does Wilbur have many friends?’ I ask, interrupting this avalanche of information.

  ‘Never seen one of late. But I’d guess he doesn’t want them to know about his father. I mean,
Jeremy has to wear incontinence pads and he often has … little accidents, if you know what I mean.’

  I nod, hoping she hasn’t noticed the bulge under my shirt.

  ‘Wilbur takes his father out to the local pub every so often. They play pool or snooker and have a meal sometimes. Jeremy is always very excited about it. It wears him out though so when they get home after one or two pints, Wilbur puts him straight to bed. Joy always tells him off because she thinks it’s wrong to let Jeremy drink, because of his medication, you know, but Wilbur doesn’t agree. Jeremy seems to enjoy himself, so why not? And what does it matter for him now anyway?’

  She stops and looks up at the clock, cocking her head as she listens. ‘I think I hear Joy’s car.’ She chuckles girlishly. ‘I might be a bit shaky nowadays, inspector, but there is nothing wrong with my hearing.’

  I get up and stretch my back. There is a thoughtful expression on her face as she walks me out, repeating that I can come back any time if there is anything else she can help me with. As I step onto the path in her tiny front garden, I realise that I have learnt more about the Torrington family than I would have done if I’d been back at work in full capacity as a policeman, like Maloney. I would never have had the time to listen to all of Betsie Rendle’s stories – or eat her home made muffins.

  19

  Betsie Rendle’s front door closes behind me with a dry click. She says she’ll join me later at the Torrington’s house, but she would rather not be there when I told the family about Wilbur’s death. ‘They’ll need some time for themselves, inspector.’

  I wait for Joy Spicer to get out of a battered red car that looks like it’s been hit on one side by another vehicle. She has small hips, broad shoulders and a big bosom. Her hair is dyed blonde and her eyes are swollen. She’s been crying. I wonder if she already knows about her brother’s death. She opens the boot and takes out a blue Ikea shopping bag with a pile of neatly folded and ironed bed clothes and towels balanced on top of it.

  Then she tries to lift a second bag out of her car. I hear her speaking sharply and notice that she hasn’t come on her own. In the passenger seat is a man speaking on a mobile phone.

  Mrs Spicer passes me, carrying one of the laundry bags as if it weighs a ton. She looks at me warily, standing in Betsie Rendle’s front garden.

  ‘Mrs Joy Spicer?’

  As I step forward, she looks up with an indifference that suggests a life full of dissatisfaction and disappointment. Joy. I can’t think of a name more unsuited to her

  ‘Mrs Spicer? Mr Jeremy Torrington’s daughter?’

  She stops halfway along the path, opening her bag to search for her keys. ‘I am, yes, but I’m not sure …’ She pauses, frowning. ‘Are you selling something?’

  ‘No, but I would like to have a word with you and Mr Torrington, if that’s possible.’

  Finding a bunch of keys, she looks over her shoulder with a wry smile. ‘As you say, if that is possible.’ Her voice is full of sarcasm.

  ‘I would like you to be present too, Mrs Spicer.’

  ‘Oh?’ Suspicion is now settling in. She senses that something is wrong, but she still thinks that I’m trying to sell her something – double glazing, a conservatory or solar panels.

  ‘I’m Detective Inspector Tregunna. Andy Tregunna. Can I come in?’

  ‘Oh.’ She swallows heavily. An unsteady hand tugs at the collar of her coat. Finds her throat.

  She looks over my shoulder as if she’s hoping someone will appear to help her. ‘Police? What is it about? My father?’ Her mind is working overtime and all she can think of is what her father might have got himself into.

  ‘Shall we go inside, Mrs Spicer?’ I say gently.

  She hesitates. Fearful. She knows intuitively that whatever I have to say, it will be bad news.

  She can’t find the right key. Preparing herself for the worst, she rubs her eyes and a single tear trickles down her face. She looks like someone who has too much on her plate and can’t take any more.

  ‘Let me help you.’

  ‘I can manage.’

  She unlocks the door and puts one foot on the threshold, cocking her head, listening. The house is quiet. Her father isn’t awake yet. She turns.

  ‘Sorry.’ She’s recovering, finding her composure. ‘Do you have an identification card?’

  ‘I have.’ I hand her my ID and she scans my features, comparing them with the photo which was taken when I had longer hair and my face was fuller and my eyes brighter.

  ‘Okay.’ Giving it back to me, she shrugs off her coat and hangs it on an empty coat hook. ‘My father is … not well.’

  ‘I’ve just spoken to your neighbour, Mrs Rendle.’

  ‘Oh. Come through, please.’

  She locks the front door securely behind us, putting the key in the pocket of her fleece. Then she opens a door into a gloomy living room where the curtains are half drawn and the heater is on full blast. We are engulfed by heat. Automatically, I start unzipping my jacket.

  ‘My father is always cold,’ she says apologetically.

  Two armchairs are by the window, one has an upturned open book and a pair of reading glasses on the seat. A matching sofa is pulled away from the wall and full-length curtains behind it divide the room into two narrow spaces.

  ‘Shall I … make a brew?’

  I could tell her that I have already had two cups of tea and two muffins with her neighbour but she needs to do something. She needs time before we sit down and I tell her the bad news.

  ‘That would be lovely, Mrs Spicer. I suspect your father is still asleep?’

  ‘I hope so. Let me check first.’ She disappears between the curtains behind the sofa. ‘Father? Are you awake?’

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘We have a visitor, father.’ Her voice trembles. She’s trying hard to sound cheerful in an attempt to let her father think that he’s been expecting a friend or relative to call in to see him.

  ‘A visitor?’ The curtains slide open, revealing a small dark area just big enough for a hospital bed and a matching bedside cupboard. On the floor are packs of incontinence pads and paper towels.

  ‘Yes. He is a policeman.’

  I guess it’s her way of warning him of any bad news. She hasn’t asked me anything about her brother, but I’m sure it won’t have crossed her mind that he is dead.

  ‘Police!’ Panic sounds in his voice and he gets up as if he wants to run to the door. Joy puts her arm round him quickly, casting me a worried look.

  ‘We haven’t done anything wrong, father,’ she tells him reassuringly and she gently steers him towards the chair by the window. ‘He just wants to ask us a couple of questions.’

  ‘Oh.’ He looks round, trying to remember who he is. Or where he is. He is dressed in grey track suit trousers and a light blue shirt with a red bow tie. His grey hair is long and wispy, wafting around his head like a constantly moving halo. His eyes, a greenish brown clouded by cataracts, are wide and vacant. In a way, he reminds me of Mrs Carthew, but she was joyful and happy and this man is frightened, frustrated and aggressive.

  ‘Greg is here too, father. He’ll take you out later.’ As if on cue, I hear a key unlocking the front door and heavy feet are wiped on the door mat. ‘You hear that? That’s Greg.’

  ‘I’m going out with Will.’ Torrington shakes his head, his hair falling over his eyes.

  She doesn’t argue with him. I’ve read somewhere that by arguing with people with dementia or, in Torrington’s case, Alzheimer’s, they tend to get upset and angry. They don’t understand, they can’t remember, yet they are aware of something they can’t fathom anymore. Joy Spicer has been dealing with her deteriorating father long enough to know what is the best way to handle him and respond to him.

  ‘This is Andy Tregunna, father. He is a policeman, but he is very nice. You don’t need to worry.’

  ‘Police? Is this about George?’ he asks.

  At the same time, a man emerges in the doorway. He is tall an
d muscular, his head and face closely shaved, except for a bushy red moustache. Clearly, he has heard overheard his wife and he assesses the situation in one gaze.

  He nods in my direction and sits down on the sofa. ‘George? No, I don’t think so,’ he says sarcastically. ‘George is dead, don’t you remember, old man?’

  ‘Have I not told you to go?’ Torrington spits back at him.

  ‘Father …’ Joy tries to smooth over the situation. Not successfully.

  Her father half rises from his seat, hands on the armrests to steady himself.

  ‘Who is this man?’ he yells. ‘Why did you let him in? I don’t like him, Rose, I don’t trust him at all. Where is my wallet? I have to check if my money is still there.’

  Joy shakes her head, frowning at her husband, pleading him not to make the situation worse. ‘Don’t argue with him, please, Greg. Do as we’ve been told, otherwise he’ll get upset.’

  ‘I’m just fed up with it,’ he replies harshly. ‘We keep saying the same things to him all the time he never…’

  ‘Inspector, this is Greg, my husband.’ Joy Spicer interrupts him, forcing a tiny smile. ‘He can’t handle my father. It is hard when …’

  ‘O please, woman! Of course it is hard, because you’re making it hard for yourself. I told you …’

  She shakes her head, wiping perspiration from her top lip. ‘I’ll make us a brew,’ she announces, her voice steady and she disappears into the kitchen without waiting for his reaction. I suspects her earlier tears were from an argument with him before they arrived.

  I sigh. I hate it when people fight just for the sake of it. Just to prove who is right and who is wrong. Pointless battles between people who once loved each other, who have now become bitter. Disappointed. Unforgiving.

  I sit on the creaking sofa, conscious of the lumps of the metal springs protruding through the upholstery. As I move into a more comfortable position, my jacket falls open and the bulge beneath my shirt becomes clearly visible. I see Greg Spicer stare at it, and then he stifles a stupid, embarrassed grin behind a hand.