Briony must have been four at the time. They say that people can barely remember anything from before the age of three. Perhaps Briony won’t even remember very much of what it was like when her parents were married and they lived as a family.
‘What did you mean when you mentioned there were issues in the past?’
‘Hmm.’ He stares at me reluctantly, already regretting that he’d let that slip. He has decided to answer my questions, but not to give me any further, unasked information.
‘At some point, Alicia accused me that I hadn’t been a real father to Briony. But that wasn’t true, inspector. I love that girl to bits. Always have, always will. But it was at the same time that I had that relationship with the woman at work. Well, I can’t say any more than that I must have neglected Briony a bit. And Alicia too. Ken is aware of that and … Maureen believes that he might use that against me if it comes to court.’
‘Maybe the three of you ought to have a proper talk about your daughter. You can go to court, but, in my opinion, that’s not always the best option.’ I have seen too many painful outcomes determined in court to advise him otherwise.
‘I think we should wait until this is all behind us,’ he says pensively. ‘I mean … when can the funeral be arranged?’
‘I hope soon.’ Changing the subject completely, I move in the seat, feeling it shift to the left. ‘Mr Bennett, were you aware of what happened, when your ex-wife and your daughter were on holiday in Portugal last summer?’
He nods, annoyance crossing his face. ‘I suspect you’re referring to her being taken into police custody for one night.’ It isn’t a question.
‘I was.’
He shakes his head, clearly reliving his anger and frustration. ‘Unbelievable. You would expect that a woman of her age had more sense than getting arrested for being drunk and falling over her own feet at night, wouldn’t you?’
‘How did you know about it?’
He stretches his neck like an alert meerkat, gazing over the top of the bushes, sniffing for danger lurking somewhere in the vicinity. He is uncomfortable and I’m getting the feeling that my vague hunch appears to be right: there is something he hasn’t told me. Something that might change our idea that Alicia’s death had to do with the dogging meeting in that car park at the fishing lake that night.
‘Why? Has what happened on that holiday got anything to do with her murder?’
‘We are following several lines of enquiry, Mr Bennett, as we have not been able to determine the killer’s identity or his motive.’
‘I doubt that incident in Portugal was the reason.’ His mood changes rapidly. Anger crosses his face. Defiance. And suddenly, he is less cooperative. ‘Look inspector, have you got nothing else to do? Like finding the man who killed the mother of my daughter?’
‘We’re doing our best to …’
‘Not with this nonsense I hope, inspector. This happened … how long ago? Months ago. If what happened in Portugal last summer was the motive, then the killer waited a damn long time.’
‘You are right, Mr Bennett, but you know … or maybe you don’t know, that we go through everything thoroughly before we dismiss anything.’ I smile at him and I see his shoulders relax a bit. ‘One more question on this subject, though, Mr Bennett. Do you know why they released her without charging her? I understand that the Portuguese police have a rather strong policy on drunken behaviour. They don’t let tourists off lightly just with a warning.’
‘I wasn’t there, inspector.’
‘No, but the Portuguese police called you, and not her husband. And you spoke to her yourself.’
He shrugs. ‘You seem to know everything already, inspector. Yes, I did speak to Alicia at the time. The Portuguese police called me. I suppose it was because of Briony. Her last name is Bennett and perhaps they didn’t realise that we were divorced.’
‘Did you ask them not to press charges?’
He scowls. ‘Believe you me, Mr Tregunna, I would happily have travelled to Portugal to pick up Briony while her mother was spending some time in a Portuguese prison. That would teach her.’
I lean back and stare at him, realising what he just said. ‘So you do have a motive, Mr Bennett? With her death, it may be easier for you to get custody of your daughter. Is that why you killed her?’
‘Me?’ He rises, pressing a hand into his lower back and he grimaces as if relieving himself of lower back pain. ‘I think it is time to go, inspector. I don’t like to be accused of murdering someone.’
His glares at me with a mixture of pain and annoyance. Then a long fart escapes from my stoma bag. I try to press my hand on it, but it has no effect. Blushing with embarrassment, I open my mouth to apologise, but the look on his face stops me. Somehow, the almost triumphant look in his eyes makes me want to hurt him. I can’t find the words and instead I turn back to my mental questionnaire.
‘Mr Bennett, can you tell me who Alicia’s godfather is?’
His face turns from pink to a shade of yellowish grey. ‘Mr Tregunna, I would like you to leave. Now. I find your questions ridiculous and irrelevant. If you have something to say to me, or to ask me, please do so as soon as I have arranged for a lawyer because, clearly, you seem convinced that I killed my ex-former wife.’
‘This godfather has …’
He shakes his head disgustedly. ‘As far as I know, inspector, Alicia never had godparents, so I can’t help you there. Now, would you be so kind as to leave these premises? Contrary to you, I have a job to do, you see.’
28
I don’t possess the social skills that help me to make friends in an easy, casual way. Whenever someone comes close enough to become a friend, whether subconsciously or not I seem to manage to scare them off, mostly by refusing to confide in them. Friends are there to help each other and therefore they need to know things about each other. I am generally considered as a very good listener, but I rarely tell my inner thoughts to anyone else. I’ve always thought nobody would be interested in my thoughts and opinions, a habit that is still a big part of my life.
I would never have chosen my neighbour, Harradine Curtis, as a friend, but things have developed between us. Perhaps it is because he is nosy and therefore knows things about me without me telling him. As he is also quite opinionated, he often lets me know what he would do in certain circumstances, and what he thinks about news items or people we both know, albeit sometimes vaguely, or even not at all, like celebrities on television.
On many occasions he has told me how he feels about the development of my relationship with Lauren. Or rather, the non-existent relationship with her.
I know he is right. I know I have to talk to Lauren, and perhaps explain a bit, not everything, not the real reason, about why I left her house so abruptly the last time we met. Eventually, Curtis managed to persuade me to pick up the phone and dial her number. He just wouldn’t leave my apartment, before he’d made sure I’d spoken to her. And I have. Her reaction was cautious and hesitant, understandable in the circumstances. Prompted by Curtis, I told her that I was sorry and could I come and see her, some time, to apologise. Eventually she said yes, albeit too reluctantly for comfort. I know now that I can’t afford to wait before I pick up the courage to appear on her doorstep. With a bunch of flowers, if I follow my neighbour’s instructions to the letter.
Emerging from the rather dark entrance hall of the police station, I squint my eyes in the bright sunshine. There is a feeling of Spring in the air. Mothers are appearing from the narrow street that leads towards the school with children happy that the school day is over, school uniforms dishevelled and smudged with bits of school lunch and coloured crayons. Staring at a group of three young mothers and half a dozen children, all laughing and looking happy, I feel myself slipping into a dark depression. I think about Lauren and her twin sons who might possibly offer me the closeness of my own family. If it ever gets that far. I think about Alicia and her daughter Briony who will miss her mother dearly, and about Denise whose
son Jake is showing the signs of becoming a rebellious teenager.
‘Inspector?’
I become gradually aware that someone has called my name but I was miles away. The voice is hesitant. I turn to see a young woman approaching, carrying a young child in a purple and green baby sling in front of her, the top of a small head with wispy blond hair just peeping out. She is out of breath, as if she has been in training for a charity run.
‘Excuse me. Are you the inspector investigating the death of Alicia Poole?’
‘I am.’
‘I saw you come out of the police station and I followed you,’ she confesses without a touch of guilt, breathing heavily in and out to regain control.
She has stopped a few meters away from me, which seems a rather odd distance. Not far enough to have to speak loudly, not close enough for a confidential chat either. It’s like she’s attached to an invisible elastic cord and she’s afraid that she’ll be pulled back when it stretches beyond its limit.
‘You could have come in and asked for me,’ I say warmly.
‘No.’ She adjusts the sling in which she and the young child are wrapped together.
‘I might know something.’ She lowers her voice, but doesn’t come closer. Perhaps she has this weird idea that I will grab her and take her into custody at the police station, where she can’t escape.
‘About the murder investigation?’ I ask, trying not to sound too hopeful.
‘It may be nothing.’ She shrugs, mentally pulling back.
‘Or it may be something.’
Sometimes you come across people like this. Innocent witnesses who feel under pressure to do the right thing but are hesitant because they don’t know what the implications of their actions might be, especially to themselves. You don’t have to look far for them though because regardless of appeals you make for information, they just pop up, in their own good time. Often,, they don’t even realise how valuable their information turns out to be.
‘Can I get you a drink? Tea? Coffee?’ I look round, finding a little café with tables in the windows, empty ones against the back walls. ‘There?’
It isn’t exactly her style, or mine, but it is perfect for now. There won’t be much risk that someone she knows will see her in there. If that’s what she is worried about.
She checks the display on the mobile phone in her hand. ‘Uhm … I haven’t got much time.’
‘I don’t know, perhaps it won’t take long for you to tell me what you know,’ I suggest gently, hoping I am winning her trust.
‘Yes. No, I guess you’re right.’ Her head jerks from side to side, looking around, checking that there isn’t anyone she knows. ‘I haven’t got much time,’ she repeats with a hint of distress.
‘We’ll have tea or coffee.’
She shrugs, her eyes almost tearful, so I add for some reassurance: ‘Perhaps they do nice cakes.’
‘Alright then.’
She walks two steps behind me. To a bystander, it may not be obvious whether we are together or not. I guess not; she’s not my type and she is too young for me anyway. But then why would I be with a young woman and a baby?
She sits down, her back to the entrance, adjusting the child automatically and she pushes loose strands of dark hair from her face. She has bright and intelligent, blue-green eyes and a smile that was at first warm and charming, but now only shows her anxiety.
‘Your first child?’ I ask, mainly to relieve the tension, choosing my words with care because I am not able to determine what may be obvious to others but not to me: whether the child is a boy or a girl. I don’t want to hurt her feelings.
‘Yeah,’ she says, automatically checking to see if the baby is alright. Then her face lights up with a smile. ‘He ruins my nights, though.’
He. A boy. ‘Can I take your name?’
Immediately she is taken aback. ‘My name? Do you need to know?’
‘That depends how important your information is.’
She looks around again. Checking. Nervous. As if she is scared. Something catches her eye and she changes her mind. ‘I really have no time for tea or coffee.’
‘We can walk,’ I suggest. ‘Up that street, around the corner there? Nobody will pay us any attention.’
‘Uhm … maybe, yes, but I need to go, so is it okay if we walk that way?’
Shrugging apologetically at the café owner, I follow her outside. She gestures towards a small alley between two shops. There is a bin bag shoved in the corner, torn open by seagulls perhaps or some small rodent. Dark stains on the walls, murky puddles underfoot, the alley smells as if it’s been used by people who can’t be bothered to find a loo or pay to use a public toilet since local councils started charging due to budget cuts and choices had to be made as to where to make savings.
The young mother sees my distaste, shrugs. ‘It’s the shortest way to my home.’
‘Alright.’ It’s not an area I would choose for a conversation. The alley is barely wide enough for two people to walk beside each other,. She walks in front of me, expecting me to follow her, yet not looking over her shoulder to see if I do.
‘I am Andy,’ I say, by way of encouragement.’
‘Oh … uhm … Rosie.’
It’s a lie and we both know it. Yet I make a mental note of the name. If someone has to come up with a name, and has no time to think about it, the first name they come up with is of someone they know or are related to. Not necessarily someone close, but … friends, distant relatives, someone they’ve recently seen or met. A name swirling in the head subconsciously.
‘Is it about Alicia Poole’s murderer?’ I start encouragingly.
‘Uhm … not really.’
‘Wilbur Torrington?’
‘No, no, not him. It is about the woman. Alicia.’
‘Did you know Alicia Poole?’ I ask.
‘Uhm … only through a mutual friend, really. We weren’t friends, if that’s what you mean.’
I feel like I’ve hit a brick wall.
‘Did you know her at all? Alicia?’
‘We … no, but I knew of her.’
She is tentative, nervous, now constantly looking over her shoulders, but not at me. She stops at the end of the alley, looking round the corner as if she’s playing hide and seek. Her baby is waking up, making tiny sounds at first then crying hungrily.
‘What’s his name?’
‘What …? Oh, sorry.’ Her lips curl in a proud motherly smile. ‘It’s Harry.’ As much as she was cautious about not telling me her own name, she tells me the baby’s name with no hesitation, only realising she’s let down her guard when the little one increases his volume.
‘How old?’ I ask, appearing not to have noticed.
‘Uhm … six months.’ Even I could have guessed about that, by the size of him.
She turns left into a street of small bungalows on one side and a row of garages and sheds on the other. The road is tarmacked but covered in potholes. Four old battered cars are lined up alongside the garages. One is missing all four doors, the other three are placed on piles of bricks where the tyres have been removed. It is one way to avoid your car being stolen.
The bungalows have small front gardens, mostly paved over or littered with rubble. The odd one has some sad looking shrubs alongside the knee-high concrete walls bordering each of the spaces. A very depressing environment to live in. I hope, for the little boy’s sake, that this is not where she lives.
A car engine comes to life and Rosie almost jumps as though she has a guilty conscience. Diesel fumes cloud the car’s rear end for a moment and I see her wince, shielding the baby from the poisonous air with a hand over his face.
Catching up with her, I start walking beside her, trying to peep at the little boy’s face, and she smiles with the warmth of a proud young mother.
‘How well did you know Alicia Poole?’ I ask again.
‘I didn’t know her.’
The car engine is almost too loud to hear what she says. I follow
her annoyed gaze. The driver has climbed out and is now almost bent double to fetch something from the back seats.
‘Then what …?’
‘Over here.’ She stops at a small gate made of wood that was once painted green and now has a weathered grey colour. The hinges are rusty. She pushes it open and it gets stuck on the uneven path that leads to a porch, with a few shrubs on either side. The bungalow has whitewashed walls and white window frames covered in a layer of dirt, but the windows themselves have been washed recently and the net curtains behind look clean.
A few terracotta pots with the remains of last year’s geraniums are lined up to one side of the porch. The plants have so far survived the mild winter, but only just.
Rosie, or whatever her real name is, unlocks the porch and takes off her shoes. She’s wearing bright red socks and slips her feet into a pair of black-and-white slippers with panda bear faces on her toes.
‘Adam?’ she shouts, but the house seems empty.
‘I’ll make us some tea,’ she says, ‘then I’ll have to breast-feed the baby. I hope you don’t mind.’
‘Of course not,’ I say, uneasy.
I enter a living room with a threadbare beige carpet, a faded green fabric settee and two non-matching armchairs, and a chipped and painted coffee table. There is a TV set on a white MDF cabinet, its bottom shelf full of DVD boxes. On the floor are some old shoe boxes. There are bright floral curtains, not quite long enough to cover the window, giving the overall impression that the room was furnished on a budget or from a charity shop.
She is unwinding the sling, carefully holding Harry against her body.
‘Shall I put the kettle on?’ I offer, wondering if she is embarrassed by my presence or to cope with my own embarrassment at the thought of her breast-feeding.
‘The kitchen is a mess,’ she says, shrugging, but she seems to accept my offer, as she sits down on one of the very uncomfortable looking armchairs and removes the baby sling and pulls up her shirt. The little boy opens his eyes, looks round for something familiar and when he sees his mother’s face opens his mouth to let her know that he is hungry.
COVER THE LIES: A TREGUNNA CORNISH CRIME NOVEL Page 21
