‘Maybe it’s nothing,’ I offer gently.
He doesn’t answer, grabbing a handful of M&Ms and is only faintly distracted when a red one slips between his fingers and lands on the floor. He doesn’t bother to pick it up. He taps on the ergonomically shaped keyboard so fast, moving things from the screens on either side to the one in the middle and, before I can work out what they are, let alone read them, a printer behind me whirrs and produces a disappointingly small amount of A4 sheets. He crumples the top sheet, with only a disclaimer on it, in his hands and throws it in the direction of a paper waste bin that is already surrounded by similar crumpled sheets. This one lands in the bin like the winning goal of the world’s best basketball player. Grunting, he shoves the remaining two pages in my direction.
‘I think it’s nothing but have a look yourself.’
I open my mouth to thank him but he is already engrossed in whatever he is doing on his three connected screens.
He is right. The emails are short and contain no useful information at all. In one email the Godfather says he had seen Alicia somewhere in town and was sorry that she was in a hurry and couldn’t speak to him. In another email he suggested having a coffee and a chat sometime somewhere, to which she replied that she was too busy and would contact him if she had more time. Both emails are dated five months ago. Her refusal, at that point, to meet him, can hardly be seen as a motive for her murder.
I am inclined to believe that this is a dead-end line of inquiry, until I see the fourth message, dated ten days before her death. ‘We have to meet, Ali. Urgently.’
I shake Roger out of his concentration. ‘Can you find out who this godfather is?’
‘Could be anyone’s godfather.’
I suppress a frustrated sigh. ‘But I’d like to know who Alicia’s godfather was.’
I know Penrose and Ollie Reed are not really fans of Roger; I begin to understand why, as I’m now finding him infuriatingly annoying.
‘Ask her family,’ he adds, even more unhelpfully.
I rise to my feet. ‘No worries, Roger,’ I say curtly, resorting to the only thing I know that in the right circumstances will have an effect: ‘I’ll ask Hazel.’
‘Okay.’ There is a slightly uncomfortable pause until, for the first time, he looks at me with his head actually turned towards me. I see the faintest twitch of unease crossing his face and his eyes contract to little black dots. I’ve hit a nerve mentioning Hazel’s name.
She is his direct manager, and the proverbial nail in his coffin. She’s in her late forties, prim and, rumour has it, frustrated with her single status. Although she’s his superior, in Roger’s eyes, she’s a digital dinosaur. In short: Hazel and Roger don’t understand each other, dislike for each other the only thing they have in common.
‘Sorry,’ he says, chucking another handful of M&Ms in his mouth, then remembering what his parents must have tried to teach him – manners - and he scoops up the half-empty packet, holding it out to me by way of a peace offering.
‘Sorry. Bad day.’ His grin is sheepish, expressing more emotion than I’ve ever seen. ‘Late night, to be honest. My own fault.’
‘Couldn’t get away from your computer?’
‘I wish.’ He shakes his head. ‘I have a mutual understanding with my Tits.’
Tits, I know, is his girlfriend. Her real name is Margaret. I have met her only once. She bears no resemblance whatsoever to her nickname. She is small and boyish, unshapely, and has probably never worn a dress or skirt since she was old enough to defy her mother’s taste for girly clothes.
‘We’ve agreed to switch off our phones, tablets, laptops at nine o’clock, and then watch a film on Netflix or Amazon,’ Roger explains sombrely.
‘And she cheated?’
‘Oh no, man!’ His face opens in the widest grin possible and his eyes have come to life. ‘But she’s kept me awake almost all night with some … stuff she’d ordered online. You know.’
‘What stuff?’ Roger is in the habit of calling everything stuff.
‘Sexy stuff.’ He becomes more human than ever by blushing like a young teenager. ‘You know.’
‘Oh.’ I accept two M&Ms and start crunching, merely to allow him some time to recover. For a young, switched on man, he seems oddly prudish.
More key tapping and activity on his screen, only one this time, and eventually, he says,
’ Okay,’ leaning backwards and folding his hands behind his head, tapping rapidly with the heels of his trainers on the floor. A habit that reveals his impatience.
He points to the printer as it starts whirring again. ‘Those messages were sent from a mobile phone. A pay-as-you-go card,’ he explains, choosing his words slowly and with care, as though he is trying to make me understand that one and one equals two. ‘The number has been withheld.’
‘So you can’t find out who this godfather is,’ I say, almost feeling triumphant because I have caught him out.
He looks at me witheringly. ‘I have the number for you and I know the name of the phone company which sold the SIM. But it hasn’t been used since a few days ago. The only way to find out the godfather’s identity is if he paid for the SIM card by credit card. Which he didn’t.’
I swallow my disappointment. ‘How do you know all this?’
‘Don’t ask.’
‘I don’t need to know?’
‘You don’t want to know.’ He shakes his head. ‘Criminals tend to use those SIM cards more often than we would like, Tregunna. You can buy these SIM cards so cheaply and all you have to do is destroy it afterwards and buy a new one.’
‘I heard they … can be ... destroyed … damaged by water.’
‘Not a chance. You can disable a SIM card by entering the PIN number three times incorrectly. This will lock it until you unlock it with your PUK code. But if you want to make it impossible to recover any data from it, you have to physically destroy the card.’ Ignoring the urge to turn back to his screens, he is on a roll. ‘It’s more difficult than you think. Put it in a microwave or oven and heat it, cut it in pieces and burn or dissolve the metal pieces in some kind of acid. Then dispose each fragment in a different location.’ He grins again, seeing the expression on my face. ‘But most criminals don’t do that. Like everyone else, they don’t tend to chuck away something that is still useful. They may keep the SIM card and use it again for their next job. Anyway … back to our godfather.’
‘You just said that the phone hasn’t been used since … Saturday?’ I say slowly. ‘That is the day that Alicia Poole disappeared and died. I need to find this godfather.’
‘Of course.’ He makes it sound like he’s reminding me of the fact that it’s my job to find out who he is. He nods seriously but as he turns back to his keyboard and stares at his screens, he’s already forgotten me.
‘I’m thinking of buying some smelly stuff for Tits.’
I see perfume bottles popping up and disappearing again. I still find it odd to hear him use her nickname in a way that is inexplicable to me.
‘Chanel No 5?’
He smirks. ‘My mother uses that.’
I suppose I’m the last person to know anything about perfume but for some reason, I seem to have the right answer. ‘Try that pop singer. The one with the blue wig and gold glasses. I think I’ve read somewhere that she has launched a range of cosmetics.’
He jumps enthusiastically. ‘Hey man! That’s great!’ He clicks a couple of times and finds what he’s looking for.
‘Now where were we, Andy?’ He looks at me expectantly. ‘Your godfather. If he is involved in the murder, he’d be totally daft to use that phone, that SIM card, ever again. But, as I said, people don’t like to waste money, so I will keep an eye on it and let you know if he uses it again. And before you ask, I will email you the location point so that you will know his whereabouts when he sent those messages to Alicia Poole.’
I thank him and I see him return to the online perfume site, click on a blue bottle with a gold top
before he half jumps from his chair to retrieve a bank card from his wallet.
‘”Blue’s-on”, I hope it smells as good as it sounds,’ he says over his shoulder. ‘Thanks man. Appreciate it. Happy Tits!’
27
The most obvious explanation for someone to call themselves godfather is that they were appointed godfather to Alicia by her parents. Another explanation is that they use the term at a self-appointed guru. None of this makes any sense in relation to Alicia and the person calling himself godfather in his emails to her. Kenneth isn’t aware that Alicia had godparents, neither is Denise. Maloney’s opinion isn’t very helpful either. He grinned when he read my notes and asked why on earth I could possibly believe that a godfather is able to kill his own godchild. He makes it sound as if I have lost my mind. Even Penrose looks at me dubiously and comes up with a vague excuse when I announce to her that I’m going to see Trevor Bennett about it; she isn’t coming with me.
He works in a warehouse belonging to a Cornwall-based chain of shops that deal with anything to do with water sport. It may have originated as a single surf shop years ago, but it has now grown to a well-known chain for with shops all over the south west.
Trevor Bennett is in charge of the stock, which includes the handling of deliveries as well as despatching orders from the shops. I find him in the doorway of a small office beside the doors that are wide enough for a van to enter and load and unload. He is dressed in his work clothes – dark grey trousers and an ocean blue shirt, the word “Surfing” is sewn on the breast pocket. Again I’m surprised at how tall he is.
In his hands, he is holding a long sheet of a computer print that almost reaches the tips of his shoes and he is instructing someone where to store the boxes that are stacked on a fork-lift truck. Although the driver nods repeatedly, his face has a blank expression and I can understand why Bennett finds it necessary to explain everything again. The driver hesitates, still uncertain about what is expected of him and I can see Bennett clenching his fists.
‘Now go and don’t bloody waste my time!’ He has to raise his voice over the radio, turned on to keep everyone, except him, in a good mood.
I clear my throat, stopping just close enough to catch his attention.
‘Inspector.’ He frowns, clearly annoyed by the appearance of yet another person to waste his time. ‘Don’t tell me that you have come all the way from Newquay to talk to me.’
‘I was in the area,’ I reply matter-of-factly, deciding that white lies sometimes serve a purpose. And I need his cooperation. ‘I thought I’d drop in.’
‘Do you have any news? Did you find Ali’s murderer?’
‘I’m afraid not.’
He scratches his ear before he pushes his pen behind it, debating what the best option is. ‘Oh. Well, I’m busy.’
‘I have a few more questions.’
He stares at yet another driver who has just emerged from a van in the same colour as Bennett’s shirt. He scratches his backside and grins to nobody in particular, making his way around his van with frustratingly low speed. The expression on Bennett’s face is easily readable; clearly, he considers that the van driver is up against fork-lift truck driver for who is on top of the list for redundancy.
‘My time is too bloody precious to waste my energy going over that stuff again,’ Bennett snaps at me. ‘What more can I say that I haven’t told you lot already?’
‘A murder is a serious matter, Mr Bennett,’ I say gravely. ‘In fact, as you know, we’re dealing with a double murder and I’m sure that you’ll understand that we want to catch the man who did it.’
‘Alright.’ His expression tells me that I won’t get any closer to an apology. Gesturing me into his office and waving towards a rather wobbly looking seat opposite his desk, he closes the door behind me. The radio is now only in the distant background.
‘I’m just pissed off,’ he offers by way of explanation. ‘I’m short staffed and the men I’ve got today seem to have left their brains at home. If any.’ He nods to his left side. ‘That twat you just saw started working on the fork-lift for us yesterday. He came in full of himself, boasting that he knew it all, but now that it comes to it, he’s as stupid as the rest of them.’
For the sake of his future relationship with the people he works with, I am glad that he has closed the door.
‘Right.’ He sits behind his desk and opens one drawer to put one foot on the edge. ‘What do you want to know now, inspector?’
‘Just some background information, Mr Bennett. It might not seem important, but we need to know everything about the past that might lead us to the murderer.’
‘So,’ his brows arch, ‘you aren’t anywhere near catching him?’
‘We have a couple of suspects.’
‘I’m sure you have.’ He chuckles without humour. ‘I’m also sure that my name is on that list too.’
‘Yes,’ I admit. Clearly, he expected me to deny it. Or at least he thought I’d give a neutral reply that can mean anything or nothing.
‘Oh, well, yes of course. What sort of background are you after?’
‘What was the reason for your divorce from Alicia, Mr Bennett?’
He seems genuinely surprised. It isn’t the question he expected. ‘That was years ago. Five years. What has that got to do with your investigation?’
‘Perhaps it’s nothing, but I’m just trying to get an overall picture of the situation as it was before she was killed.’
He shrugs. ‘Well, it isn’t a secret. Neither is it something out of the ordinary, inspector. I suppose we split up for the same reason as so many other couples do nowadays. To put it very simply, there was a third person involved.’
‘Did Alicia have a lover?’ I ask, although I know the answer already.
He grins sheepishly. ‘No, it wasn’t her. It was me. I had met someone else.’ His eyes are fixed on me now, not swirling round his office to avoid looking at me. It is commonly known that people who are lying tend to avoid eye contact, but people who fear that what they say may come across as untruthful also, do that. In his case, I can’t make up my mind whether he is lying, withholding something, or simply scared that he’s unintentionally misleading me.
‘Maureen?’ I ask, though I can’t image his new wife being the reason for a fling, let alone a divorce. If Penrose could read my thoughts now, she would probably accuse me of being prejudiced. Discriminating even, maybe.
‘No,’ Bennett replies, oblivious to my instant, probably unfair judgement. ‘No, it was someone at work. Typical. She worked here part-time, odd hours, only when we needed her.’
If he needed her, more likely.
‘She was also married. We met at work, we did some overtime and … one evening, it got out of hand … and it just happened. It was mad, inspector. We were both blinded. Secretive meetings, sneaking out of the office to have a quick … shag in the toilet or in our car.’ He shrugs almost apologetically. ‘You know.’
I don’t. I have never been brave or adventurous enough to get myself into situations where you can get caught easily. Even with Lucie, my ex-wife. After our divorce, she accused me of not being romantic. To me, it had nothing to do with love and romance. I wasn’t interested in a quick shag somewhere. Lucie laughed out loud with pity in her eyes when I said so.
Trevor is staring into the distance, seeing nothing, by the looks of it, recalling his illicit assignations. Maureen isn’t the romantic type either. I knew instinctively when I met her, but Trevor has learned from his mistakes and he has settled down.
‘We got caught in the act eventually, by my boss,’ he continues, with an embarrassed smile. ‘Very embarrassing at the time, but we laughed about it afterwards.’ He pauses again and shrugs. ‘Our laughing didn’t last long, though. By then, the whole company knew about it and the situation became awkward. We decided that one of us had to leave.’
‘She left?’
He sees my expression. ‘Her choice, inspector. I wasn’t keen on staying here either,
to be honest, with all the gossip and all that, but she didn’t want to ruin my career. She wasn’t too keen on the job anyway and she quit three weeks later.’
‘And then?’
‘She was gone and so were our feelings. It could all have ended just like that, but it didn’t. Somehow Alicia heard about it. Obviously, she was furious. Sad also. We … tried, but it never worked after that.’
‘When did you meet Maureen?’
‘That was about six months later. Her husband had died three years before that. We met on one of those online dating sites and … we got on well and … her children liked me.’
It seems an odd thing to say about someone he married, but I decide to let it rest. Perhaps he doesn’t mean it like that.
‘When Alicia and you parted, how was the relationship between you? Were you on speaking terms?’
‘Oh no. She was angry and hurt. I could understand that, so I left at her request.’
‘What about your daughter?’
‘Briony?’ A dark cloud crosses over his face. ‘She … I didn’t see her for months. Which was difficult, inspector. She … Alicia refused to let me see her. The girl had nothing to do with it, mind you, but still she was punished for my mistakes.’
‘But it changed. When was that?’
‘That was when Alicia met Kenneth. I’m not sure but I think he softened her a bit and, eventually, she agreed to let me see our daughter every other weekend. Like we do … like we did until the present day. We also made arrangements about holidays and, to be honest, everything worked out fine in the end, but … I’m not sure what will happen now.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Briony … I hope she will come to live with us, but if Kenneth … She gets on with Kenneth very well and he might think that it would be better for her to stay where she is.’
‘You would agree to that?’
He shrugs. ‘Yes and no. I mean there have been issues with her in the past but … I hope that’s all been resolved now. But for the moment, if it is what Briony wants, I won't push her. It will be hard enough for her to lose her mother, it wouldn’t be fair to take her away from the home she’s had for the last few years.’
COVER THE LIES: A TREGUNNA CORNISH CRIME NOVEL Page 20
