‘She was married.’
‘They had an open marriage. Alicia knew about Kenneth’s affair with his secretary, and perhaps other girls occasionally, but she didn’t mind. She had her … flings, if you like, and they both seemed okay with that.’
‘Kenneth Poole isn’t the jealous type?’ I ask her.
‘Certainly not. Well, I haven’t met him that much, but from what Alicia told me about him, he was okay with it.’
‘That night, Alicia was supposed to sleep at your house. Were you not concerned when she didn’t show up?’
‘Not really. She is … was a grown up woman. She knew what she was doing. She said Chris, Eyre, was a friend of hers and I thought perhaps she’d stayed the night with him. Although I did expect her to come back to my house some time the following day.’
‘Did you try to contact her?’
‘Of course I did.’
‘What time was that?’
‘Uhm, when I came home. After two o’clock.’
‘At night?’
‘The next day. Afternoon.’
I move awkwardly on my seat, but she stares at me with an open face. ‘I spent the night with someone. Do you need his details?’
‘To eliminate you from our list of possible suspects? Yes.’
‘Am I a suspect?’
‘In theory, anyone could have murdered Alicia Poole. Even you.’
‘I have an alibi. I was with John. And I don’t have a motive.’
‘Perhaps you were jealous. She had a wealthy husband. She was a beautiful and attractive woman. She left you on your own in Barrie’s Bar when she went off with Chris Eyre.’
She shakes her head, unimpressed, not even offended in the slightest. ‘Alicia and I have been friends for ages,’ she says quietly. ‘There was no such thing as jealousy between us, simply because we fancied completely different men. I have never gotten on well with Trevor, for instance, and Kenneth is definitely not a man I fancy. Not even with all his money, his big house and his cars.’ She pauses and smiles gently. ‘I am more attracted to men who are more down to earth. Working men, you know.’ Once more she pauses, then says, ‘Men like you.’
She flutters her eyelashes and I can see the smile trembling on her lips. I am not sure if she is being truthful or just playing with me, flirting.
‘It’s late,’ she says, looking at her watch, reaching for her shoulder bag. ‘Time to go, I suppose.’
There are four empty coffee mugs on the table between us. Behind the counter, the staff are busy with new orders and they don’t seem to have time to clear the tables and collect the dirty trays. Outside, people are rushing past, wet umbrella’s shiny in the light of shop windows and street lamps.
‘Do you still need to go to that pharmacy? You’ve got fifteen minutes before it closes.’
‘It can wait.’
‘But can your neighbour?’
‘My neighbour?’
‘You said you were picking up a prescription for your neighbour.’
‘Oh yes. Yes, he isn’t in a rush. He’s got enough pills for this week, he said.’ It is amazing how easily the lies seem to come out of my mouth when they don’t seem to have come from my brain.
‘But will you have to come back to Truro for them?’
‘Uhm … yes.’
‘Let’s go now then.’ She rises to her feet, slipping her arms in her coat without expecting me to help her, grabbing her plastic bags in each hand, reaching to put the strap of her shoulder bag over her shoulder, and waits for me. I am shocked at the speed she’s set this in motion. I try to find an excuse, but there is none.
Then she says casually, ‘If you’re free tonight, I’d like to invite you for a meal.’
Somehow she has grabbed my arm and we duck under an umbrella she produces from her shoulder bag, close to each other to shelter. I can smell her shampoo and; I can feel the warmth of her body through her coat and mine.
I don’t want to be here, with a woman I hardly know. She’s the best friend of a murder victim whose death I am currently investigating. I think of Lauren, her light blue eyes, the freckles on her skin, the sound of her laugh, the love in her eyes when she looks at her twin sons. Perhaps I’m wrong but I sense that Denise Shaw never has a smile like that in her eyes when she looks at her son Jake. And perhaps she never will. Yet, there is something about her that tells me that I can trust her. That I can share my deepest worries with her, whereas I can’t face talking to Lauren about them.
‘You are right,’ I say, as much to my own surprise as to hers. ‘I’d better get that prescription before the pharmacy closes.’
21
The decision made, we hurry through the pouring rain. We stand next to each other at the counter, my heart pounding but not able to get out of this awkward situation. Next to me, Denise is studying a shelf containing a huge variety of vitamins and other health supplements.
The young man behind the counter calls my name as though there is another customer behind me waiting for his prescription. He puts a small box on the counter, his face expressionless and professional.
Denise turns towards me. I don’t know if she can see the writing on the little white box.
‘Thank you,’ I say to the young pharmacist. My throat is dry.
‘For your neighbour?’ Denise laughs, as she opens her umbrella again once we are outside. ‘Come on.’ She hooks her arm into mine and cocks her head to one side, looking at me with something in her eyes that can’t be mistaken for anything else than a flirtatious tease. ‘Let’s go to my home. Jake’s out with friends tonight and I’m a good cook.’
I can’t argue with that. Not with anything else. Her eyes have betrayed her intentions. I feel hot and cold at the same time. Like I’m a schoolboy approaching a girl for the first time, knowing what I want, not certain at all about what to do, scared by what might happen. The small box with the pills is burning a hole in my pocket, waiting to be used. I have already decided that I will not be able to use one of them with Lauren; I can’t bear the thought of failure. But it’s different with Denise Shaw. I hardly know her and I’m not emotionally involved with her.
I follow her as she drives home. Perhaps the drive will cool me down, but it doesn’t. My heart is racing. I want to do this, but at the same time I don’t. Do I want to know if the pills will work, or do I prefer to live in hope and uncertainty?
Too soon, I see her slow down and she turns into the street where she lives. Her house is in darkness and the faint hope that her son Jake will be at home after all, is fading fast. She climbs out of her car and I climb out of mine. Our eyes lock and I know that the promised meal will be delayed. She wants me. I hope I won’t disappoint her.
‘You alright?’ she asks softly, as we step inside and she closes the door behind me, pressing her body against mine. I can taste mint on her lips and there is something else that reminds me of printer’s ink.
‘Andy.’ My name is said in a sigh so soft that I’m not sure if I heard it. ‘Relax. I’ll get you some water.’
For the pill.
‘Come.’ I feel cool palms on each side of my face as she holds my head and brings her lips to mine. ‘Relax, hon. Nothing to worry about.’ Smiling softly, she stares into my face, lightly tracing her fingers across my chest.
‘I’m …’ I wonder, if she's aware of my stoma bag. Should I tell her now, watch her face as disappointment or disgust settles on it before she releases me quickly? Or should I wait and let her find out herself, let her current feelings of lust dissolve in anticipation?
Without a word, she shakes her head and takes my hand. I follow her up the stairs, still unsure what to do, what to say, but it seems I have no say in the matter.
‘I’ll get you some water before I use the bathroom,’ she says in a low voice. ‘Let me get rid of that awful office smell first.’ I know what she’s doing. Whether from experience or just internet-knowledge, she’s well aware that it’ll be some time before the pill starts working. If …
She pulls the curtains closed and, blowing me a kiss on her fingertips, she disappears in the bathroom. I take one of the pills from the strip and swallow it without reading the instructions and warnings. With my pants and T-shirt on, I slip into her bed and listen to water running in the bathroom, her voice humming a currently popular song. There is no going back now. I’m not even sure if I want to turn the clock back.
She’s wearing lacy underwear. A push-up bra and a thong. Her hair is hanging over her shoulders and her eyes are dark with passion. I know that this is all wrong, but I don't seem to be able to move. I wanted this, but not for the right reason. And, fearing that the pill won’t have any effect on my body, I know that I will be embarrassingly disappointing for her. I want to say something, but she is already leaning over me, her hair touching my face, her lips on mine.
The proximity of her body to my own causes a flutter in my stomach. I close my eyes and reach for her breasts. Waiting and hoping for a miracle. The scent of her perfume is overwhelming, the warmth of her soft, smooth skin even more so as she slides over me. Thigh on thigh as she moves between my legs, leaning her body on top of mine, hard nipples pressing into my chest. Her breath is in my face, her hands are on my body, caressing, starting from my neck and shoulders and going down very slowly. Desperately, I grab her arms and flip her over on to her back and I hear her gasp of surprise. My mouth finds hers again and my hunger for her body increases. I feel myself losing control, driven, possessed.
Then, all of a sudden, it’s over. I feel her stiffen beneath me. I know what it means, but I don’t want to admit it. With wide eyes, I stare up at the ceiling and follow the pattern of shadows. She lies beside me, her breath slowly coming back to normal.
Finally she says, catching her breath, ‘I’m sorry.’
So am I, is what I want to say, but only an unidentifiable noise comes from the back of my throat. She hoists herself up to lean on one elbow and I know she is staring at the stoma bag under the white cotton of my T-shirt.
‘Andy …’
I swallow. Tears are running down the sides of my face. I cry and I can’t stop. I need to explain this to her but I can’t find the right words. Nerves are taking over my body. I am shaking as though I have been in cold water and my body isn’t warming up quickly enough. I’m in the semi-darkness of her bedroom and, if there was to be an opportunity to share my true feelings, then this is the moment. I cannot keep this in and still I am afraid to address what it is I can’t say. I turn my head to see her half-frowning, half-smiling
‘I’m so sorry,’ she says again.
‘No,’ I say, my voice broken. ‘It isn’t you. It’s me’
22
Chris Eyre lives close to the showground at Wadebridge, where the Royal Cornwall Show is held every year at the beginning of June. I have always had a liking for the old cottage. Recently, I have passed it several times and I remember that it had been derelict for a long time. Occasionally, it had ‘For Sale’ signs in the windows, but they have disappeared. It looks like someone has taken on the job of giving the cottage a new lease of life. The hedges around it have been cut and the walls have been freshly whitewashed. The double-glazed windows are brand new. With pleasure, I notice that the frames are made of solid wood, painted in a colour that can be described as blue, green or grey, depending on how one sees colours.
The man who opens the door is wearing blue jeans and a black jumper smudged with white paint. His brown hair is short and he has a lopsided grin and a dimple in one cheek. He barely looks at my warrant card. As I put it back in my pocket, I explain that his name has come up in an investigation we’re currently working on. He doesn’t seem bothered, not even interested. Nodding briefly, he steps back to invite me in, his attention more focused on the mobile phone in his hand, checking his emails or messages continually, probably without even being aware that he is doing so. It is almost second nature these days for people to be checking their mobile phones all the time. Chris Eyre is no exception.
We climb stairs made of solid beech wood. Sheets of newspaper stained with drops of dried paint are taped onto the treads.
‘The living area is upstairs,’ he explains matter-of-factly. ‘It was Cilla’s idea. She was right. It’s brilliant.’
Whoever Cilla is, she has an eye for design. The first floor is open plan with windows on all sides, a combined kitchen-diner-lounge area. The kitchen is brand new with white, handle-free doors and a shiny top of black marble. Several copper coloured pans are hanging above a modern Aga. The floor is made of the same wood as the stairs; the walls are white and bare. He hasn’t bothered yet about the furniture; a settee and two chairs are covered with dust sheets. Bits of old tree trunk serve as coffee tables.
‘It’s not finished, as you can see,’ he days dryly. ‘I’m doing what I can, but it all takes time. Everything comes down to my spare time and of course … within the limits of our budget.’
‘Did you do this all by yourself?’ Having two left hands myself, I am duly impressed. ‘It must have been a lot of work. ‘
‘It still is.’ He grins shyly. ‘As I said, it takes a lot of time. More than I … than we expected, to be honest. My wife has given up, sadly. She couldn’t bear it anymore. She’s moved back in with her parents.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that.’
‘She’ll be back,’ he says with more self-confidence than his sagging shoulders suggest. ‘Take a seat, please, Mr Tregunna, but be careful where you sit,’ he grins again. ‘Sofa is a bit old.’
He takes the dust sheet off the sofa, revealing a base of burgundy fabric sofa, blankets and throws draped over it, probably to cover up holes in the upholstery. Saying that the sofa is a bit old is an understatement but I understand what he means when I feel myself sink into what seems like a swamp, thick mud slowly absorbing me.
‘Told you!’ he says jokingly. ‘Coffee?’
‘Thanks.’
He doesn’t seem to be too interested in finding out why I’m here, which I find unusual. I’d like to see his reaction, the expression on his face, when I explain that this is about Alicia Poole’s death. It’ll have to wait until he sits down.
‘Do you have children?’ I ask casually.
He shakes his head. ‘We’ve been trying for years, but then …’ A strange expression crosses his face. ‘Is that why you are here?’
‘What do you mean?’
He is quiet for a few moments. ‘So this isn’t …’ He stops and turns his back to me to deal with an expensive looking coffee machine, saying over his shoulder, ‘So, tell me, Mr Tregunna, what can I help you with?’
The machine hisses and lets out steam and the smell of freshly ground coffee fills the atmosphere. People say you will sell your house twice as fast with the smell of baked bread, but coffee would do the trick for me. Although the place is barely finished, I suppress a mad idea of asking him if he would sell me his house.
Unaware of my thoughts, he picks up two white mugs and places them on one of the tree trunks. ‘Milk? Sugar?’
‘No thank you.’
He sits opposite me in one of the chairs, not bothering with the dust sheet. His legs crossed and his elbows on the armrests, he looks totally relaxed. Harmless. Innocent.
‘Mr Eyre,’ I say calmly, ‘we’re currently investigating a murder. I’m sure you’ve heard about it. It has been on local television and in the newspapers.’
His eyebrows rise. ‘Don’t read papers anymore. Besides, I’ve been away. Out of the county.’
Most people want to know more about the victim when a murder is mentioned. The circumstances, the details. He doesn’t.
‘Mr Eyre, do you know Alicia Poole? Alicia Marshall, before she was married to Trevor?’
He shrugs. ‘Trevor? She told me that she was married to Ken.’ He narrows his eyes. ‘Why? What’s with Alicia?’
‘I’m afraid she’s dead.’
‘Dead? Alicia? That’s impossible.’ He pauses, eyes wide open. ‘That’s p
robably a stupid thing to say, Mr Tregunna. I don’t suppose you’re here to tell me fairy tales, but … I can’t believe it. I was with her on Saturday night.’
‘Her death has been in the press, Mr Eyre. Why didn’t you come forward when we asked for people who spoke to her, or saw her last weekend?’
His face expresses genuine surprise. ‘I didn’t know.’ He turns, his face blushing. ‘Honestly, I didn’t. I just told you that my wife has gone back to her parents. They live in West Yorkshire. I went up there for a few days to be with her. The fact that she can’t live in this mess anymore, doesn’t mean we are splitting up.’ A moment silence. ‘I hope.’
‘And you don’t read the papers.’
‘Yeah, well, no, to be honest. I don’t.’
‘When did you go to see your wife in West Yorkshire?’
‘On Sunday. I sort of got there just before tea time.’
‘When did you come back?’
‘Last night. It was a long drive and I went straight to bed when I got home.’ He looks sheepish. ‘Are you sure it is Alicia? I mean … I can’t believe it. I mean, last time I saw her, she was sort of … full of life!’
‘And when was that exactly?’
‘As I told you. Last Saturday night.’
‘In Newquay?’
‘No, yes, we drove up the coast road.’ He gestures vaguely in what he assumes is the direction of the Atlantic Ocean. ‘I saw her in a bar in Newquay. Barrie’s Bar. I was with a friend. He had helped me with some heavy stuff here and he suggested we go to the pub to relax. I didn’t really want to go out, because I was going to see my wife and I wanted a clear head for the long drive. But he had helped me and he wanted to see a film, so I thought I could doze off a bit, maybe. But when we arrived at the cinema, he found out that he’d read the dates wrong. The film he wanted to see wasn’t on anymore. We weren’t interested in the other films, so we went to have a burger somewhere and we ended up in a few pubs. We were just about to go home when I spotted Alicia. My friend said he’d got to go home anyway, so we sort of split up there and then.’
COVER THE LIES: A TREGUNNA CORNISH CRIME NOVEL Page 16
