COVER THE LIES: A TREGUNNA CORNISH CRIME NOVEL

by Carla Vermaat

  And his wife adds, apparently for no particular reason, ‘Next to the fire escape.’

  34

  I’m not sure if what Alan and Ellen Jennings have told me is of any relevance to the investigation. The Trevor Bennett I have met wouldn’t have just gone off without telling his wife and then got drunk. It doesn’t make sense to me either that he would be staying with a friend. Why wouldn’t he call his wife to tell her where he is? Why doesn’t he let her know that she needn’t worry? If it is him, he must have seen his own face in the newspapers, on the local news channels and on social media. Even if he hasn’t seen anything, surely his friend must have.

  I return to the incident room and find Penrose standing in front of the whiteboard, deep in thoughts. She turns on her heels when I approach her. ‘I thought you’d had a lie in,’ she says disdainfully.

  I drop my notebook on one of the desks and point at the few lines I have written in it. ‘I’ve just spoke to a couple who claim that they have seen Bennett. They say that it looked like he was drunk and someone helped him into a flat in St Austell.’

  She looks at my face. ‘Do you don’t believe them?’

  ‘Kind of,’ I admit. ‘They were certain that it was Bennett., although I can’t imagine that he would leave his home and family like that, making his wife sick with worry and then getting drunk and sleeping it off in someone’s flat.’

  I stare at Bennett’s photo on the board. ‘What have you been up to?’

  ‘I went to Poole’s house.’ She frowns with disapproval. ‘It’s like the poor girl is being imprisoned by her own family. She wants to go to school, but they won’t let her. She isn’t even allowed to watch TV.’ She blows her cheeks and slowly lets the air escape between her teeth. ‘I was only able to speak to Briony for two or three minutes, when the damned woman was on the phone.’

  ‘Marisa Poole?’

  ‘Yeah. She wasted my energy and my time. I nearly brought her in for obstructing our police enquiry.’ She smiles grimly. ‘But I do know that the girl hasn’t seen or heard from her father either.’

  ‘Which suggests there’s something very odd going on,’ I nod. ‘I can’t believe he would be so cruel as to just go off and leave her for no good reason so soon after her mother’s death.’

  ‘You are right. So do you believe he was drunk or was he drugged or sedated when these people saw him?’

  ‘That sounds a bit far-fetched, but yes, that could be the case.’ I tap on a keyboard and check the address of the flat which the Jennings gave me. I look at my watch. ‘The resident’s name is listed as Mrs Marcie Holt.’

  ‘I thought Bennett was seen with a man?’ She frowns, already dismissing the possibility that we might have found an important lead.

  ‘Exactly.’ I nod firmly, disguising the fact that I am following such a tenuous hunch that I can hardly justify it to myself. ‘Are you coming?’

  Penmar Road is a three-storey block of flats. The grey concrete walls are stained with so much graffiti you can’t decipher the messages. One of the flats on the second floor has scorch marks around the frames and under the walkway of the flat above. Plywood has been nailed over the door and the two windows, and scrawled across the plywood in dripped black paint are the words: ‘NO to Migrants’; someone has tried to make a point.

  The main entrance door to the building is open. It has no handle, let alone a proper locking system. The square hallway smells of urine and cigarette smoke. In the dark corner under the stairs is an old stained sleeping bag permeated with the sickly sweet smell of soft drugs. On the wall, three rows of metal mailboxes, only half of which have residents’ names on them, are all dented and sprayed with graffiti: a mixture of obscene words and body parts, mostly female.

  We climb up the concrete stairs where the smell of urine is combined with rotting food. Up on the walkway there are small puddles where the rain has dripped from broken guttering.

  Windows are covered with curtains or sometimes with just a sheet pinned to the frame. Some are ajar and a variety of smells drifts our way: spicy food, fish and chips, cat litter trays. The front doors look as if they haven’t been painted for at least a decade ago, and are now a faded blue or orange. Some of them have half-opened letterboxes with strings hanging out. Perhaps the residents are careless, or they simply know that there isn’t much worth stealing anyway. Only one resident has made an effort and placed a rectangular flower pot next to the door; despite the rain, the primroses need watering. At the end of the walkway is the regulation fire exit: its concrete steps spiralling from the top to the ground floor, enclosed with metal caging. Penrose pushes down on the handle of the metal gate which opens surprisingly smoothly.

  ‘Handy to have an escape route,’ she mutters grimly, unaware that she’s conveying the exact thoughts of Ellen Jennings.

  Only the last flat next to the fire escape has got a name next to the number, 8, on the orange door: Holt. I knock. There is no answer. The curtains are pulled closed and, when I try to peer through the letterbox, I can only see a narrow hallway with all the internal doors closed. I hear the muffled sounds of a television, but the building probably predates proper insulation, I suspect the sounds may well be from one of the neighbours.

  ‘Perhaps we should have called for back-up, sir,’ Penrose says, anxiously, staring down onto the car park where a group of teenagers with no apparent goal in life have gathered around a lamp post. One of them is making an attempt to climb it, probably to reach for a rucksack that is dangling from the light.

  ‘Call for back-up? What do you think the response would have been?’ I ask rhetorically, shaking my head and grinning at her smugly.

  ‘Perhaps it would have been better if we had talked to Maloney and convinced him about your hunch,’ she shrugs disdainfully. The expression on her face tells me that she isn’t pleased with my attitude or with the fact that I have brought her here when we are both supposed to be following orders. And she is right. My repeated rebelling against Guthrie is childish and unnecessary. Perhaps I should try harder to work as part of a team, rather than go off on my own accord.

  ‘Annie has offered to collect every snippet of information for me and I’m willing to stay all evening to record it all in the case file,’ I say by way of apology.

  ‘Anita,’ she corrects me automatically. ‘All the same. If you are right and the man we’re looking for killed two people … well, we can’t even be sure that he hasn’t killed more people, can we? And If he’s really got his hands on Bennett now too …’ She sounds apprehensive.

  ‘Jennette, I’d be happy for us to go back to the station and wait for Maloney if you think that’s the best option now.’

  She stares at me for a long time, then she shrugs, this time almost reluctantly, but she turns round and knocks on the door.

  There are no approaching footsteps.

  I peer down at the car park. On the pavement, a young mother is pushing a pram, the baby tucked underneath a blanket. A girl, judging by the tiny pink hat the baby is wearing. Beside the mother is a toddler, unsteady on his short legs but determined to walk without his mother’s help. In the street, a car drives by, revving loudly. The little boy, startled, falls over, landing on his hands and knees, crying. The mother shakes her head and I can almost hear her mumble, ‘I told you so, sweetie.’

  I turn back to Penrose. ‘If my information is correct, we should find Bennett here.’

  She looks sceptical. 'They saw him here yesterday.’

  ‘Well, perhaps someone can tell us where he is now or …’ I stop abruptly. ‘Can you hear something?’

  ‘I can hear some knocking. As if someone is hammering a nail into a wall.’ She smiles ruefully. ‘These buildings were not built properly. The walls are paper thin. It could be someone in any of these flats.’

  I shake my head and knock again. Persistent.

  ‘Hello? Uhm …can I help you?’ The neighbour’s door opens just wide enough for a man to stick his head around the door frame. A pair
of glasses is askew on his forehead.

  ‘We’re looking for your neighbour, sir,’ Penrose says politely. ‘Mrs Holt doesn’t seem to be in. Do you happen to know what time she gets home?’

  The blue door opens a bit wider. The man is wearing brown corduroy trousers and a green shirt, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His face is pale and he has wide jaws and a flat nose. His small eyes blink as a mole suddenly exposed to the light.

  There is something oddly familiar about the way he cocks his head, holding it slightly to one side as he moves. I wonder if I have met him somewhere, but nothing springs to mind.

  ‘Do you have an appointment?’ His voice is slightly hesitant before he pronounces the double P, as if he’s trying to overcome a stammer and doesn’t want us to know he has one.

  ‘No, but …’ I start. I am not sure what or why, but something feels wrong here. The question about an appointment seems totally out of place. Even if I was in urgent need of a dentist, for example, I wouldn’t consider coming here.

  The neighbour stares at Penrose as though he thinks he should know her but can’t remember where from.

  The hammering sound from somewhere in the building suddenly starts again and the man looks over his shoulder, a vague uneasiness in his expression. ‘I’m sorry about … the n-noise.’ P is obviously not the only consonant he seems to have trouble pronouncing.

  He shoves his glasses straight on top of his head. ‘Holt. Ehm … Is it urgent? ’

  He stares at Penrose. For some reason, he has decided to ignore me. Or maybe he is just one of those men who think it is much easier to deal with a woman than a man.

  ‘We just have some questions to ask,’ Penrose says vaguely.

  ‘Oh, well, actually …’ He pauses and smiles, seeming to be enjoy the conversation. I have the feeling that this he is playing a cat and mouse game with us, but I’m not sure who the mouse is.

  ‘Mrs Holt?’ The neighbour places one foot on the threshold. He is as tall as Penrose, but more bulky around the waist. Pear shaped with legs that seem too short.

  ‘Or Mr Holt?’ Obviously, Penrose has the same feeling as me and I’m aware that annoyance is already creeping into her voice.

  ‘Does he know that you’re coming?’ he offers a sheepish grin, unaware that his words are only adding to our confusion.

  ‘No,’ Penrose replies, without thinking.

  ‘Yes, he does,’ I say at the same time.

  ‘Oh. Right.’ He frowns, narrowing his eyes. ‘Well, I sup-pose I can give you a phone n-number.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  His shoulders relax and he takes his glasses of his head, folding back the arms with great care.

  He hesitates. ‘Ehm … it’s cold, isn’t it? Would you like … to come in while I get the number for you?’

  Taking his glasses in one hand, he motions with them and he goes ahead of us along a narrow hallway. A piece of brown packing tape is stuck on the back of one elbow.

  There is the hammering or knocking sound again and he shakes his head disapprovingly. ‘I hate to have to admit that living here isn’t what it used to be anymore. The whole place is deteriorating rapidly. And you don’t know who any of the neighbours are these days.’ His stammer has gone with his outburst and his intonation suggests that what he really means is there are too many residents whose native language is not English and, consequently, he is mistrustful of the unfamiliar.

  The sound returns more loudly. ‘Just a sec,’ he says, stopping halfway down the hall and opening one of the doors. As he enters a bedroom, I can see a double bed, neatly made up with a crisp white duvet cover that looks out of place in this dingy flat., two black side tables with a black and white bedside lamp on each of them, a paperback with a pair of reading glasses on one of the tables and a white clock with red digital numerals on the other. He saunters towards the wall behind the bed and lifts a fist and knocks heavily, shouting: ‘Stop it, please! I can’t even hear my own voice!’

  Turning back, he smiles sadly. ‘I can report it, obviously, but what will be the point? The police won’t do anything about it and it’ll be more reason for them to disturb us again.’

  ‘Them?’

  ‘Hm. All these noisy people around us who don’t care who they upset.’

  He closes the bedroom door and proceeds to the living room where the walls are painted with pale beige emulsion and the floor is covered with a matching beige carpet. Dark oak furniture, the upholstery brown and green. Although every piece in the room looks old-fashioned, they seem new and unused and it feels like we’ve entered a showroom in a furniture shop.

  He scratches his head as if he’s unsure about something then, hesitating, his eyes narrowed so that he can hardly see us, he mutters, ‘I seem … I’ll have to think where the number is.’

  ‘Take your time,’ I say, trying not to show any impatience.

  He invites us into the living room but the invitation doesn’t extend to offering us a seat. We stand in the middle of the room, Penrose a few paces away from me.

  He shakes his head. ‘There must me a … m-misunderstanding with the ap-pointment.’ His frame is blocking the doorway as if he is determined not to let us leave.

  He shakes his head again and mutters. ‘Normally … people don’t make mistakes about their appointments.’

  Somehow, it feels like the conversation has taken a strange turn and I haven’t a clue in what direction it is going. Oddly enough, I have the feeling that he doesn’t know either.

  ‘What makes you say that?’ I ask.

  He is confused. ‘You are a coup-ple, aren’t you? Yes of course, you are the same age and there is a certain … understanding b-between you.’ He cocks his head. ‘You are both determined p-people, I can tell.’

  ‘We are,’ Penrose says, rolling her eyes and looking hopefully at the doorway. Clearly, she’s of the opinion that the man has lost his marbles.

  He clears his throat, swallowing quickly ‘What was your name again?’

  ‘We didn’t say.’ I answer as cautiously as I can muster.

  He blinks with a mixture of anger and uncertainty. The remnants of any good humour are dissolving rapidly. ‘Oh.’ He hesitates, his feet shuffling in the doorway as if he isn’t sure whether to come into the room or not.

  ‘Uhm … have we met before?’

  ‘Strangely, I have the same feeling,’ I say, unsettling him but staring at him as if I’m trying to imagine him in different clothes and in different circumstances in order to recognise him.

  I wait. He does the same. Beside me, Penrose clears her throat. She is used to my silences which are primarily to wait for the other person to speak, but this time the silence goes on for too long and her impatience gets the better of her .

  ‘Actually, we’re not a couple, not like you think. We’re partners.’

  A fleeting sense of relief crosses over his face. ‘That doesn’t make any difference to me.’

  ‘If we could have your neighbour’s phone number?’ Penrose reminds him sweetly. ‘It would be very helpful for our investigation.’

  ‘Inv-vestigation?’

  ‘Didn’t we say?’ she grins with an almost mean expression in her eyes. ‘We’re police. Police partners.’ She makes no effort to disguise her dislike of the man.

  ‘P-police? I d-don’t understand.’ His breathing is shallow and quick. ‘Is … something wrong?’

  I don’t reply and thankfully, neither does Penrose.

  ‘Sorry.’ He clears his throat. ‘I didn’t mean to be n-nosy. It’s just that … I suppose I …ehm … may I see your identification?’

  ‘Of course,’ I say, retrieving my ID card from my pocket. He studies mine and ignores Penrose’s.

  ‘Can we see yours?’ Penrose says in a patronising tone, putting her card back in her pocket.

  ‘Uhm … yes, I’m sorry. I’m Sam. Sam … Collins.’ The smile disappears from his face. ‘If you wait here, I’ll find that phone number for you.’

  I
can see more questions are popping up in his mind but, at the same time, like a lot of people who are suddenly confronted with the police, he realises it is probably wiser to keep quiet. He rummages round until he finds a small black book under a newspaper that looks like it has been folded in haste. As he writes down a number on the edge of one of the pages of the paper and tears it off, I can just see on that page the face of Trevor Bennett.

  ‘I’m not sure if I should give the number to you.’ He hesitates, carefully considering the reasons for his confusion. ‘I mean … would it be a breach of privacy?’

  ‘We only have a few questions to help us clear up some issues that have arisen in an investigation,’ I say. ‘But, in fact, you might be able to help us too. Were you at home yesterday?’

  ‘Yesterday? I went out to get some milk and my newspaper.’ He scratches his head. One of the corners of his mouth twitches. ‘That must have been before nine. The lollypop lady was just going home. Oh, and I went out later, around lunchtime. Why do you ask?’

  ‘We’re here because we were hoping that your neighbour would be able to help us with our investigation, but I’m afraid that’s all I can tell you.’

  Uninvited, I lower myself onto the brown sofa, immediately regretting it. The surface is hard and unforgiving and although most of the surgical wounds on my bottom have healed by now, it is still a sensitive area. I pull the picture of Trevor Bennett out of my pocket, holding it up to Sam Collins. He unfolds his glasses and puts them on his nose, blinking behind them. Then he picks up the photo and studies it carefully.

  ‘Mr Collins, did you happen to see this man? We have information that he was in the flat next door yesterday.’

  ‘Yesterday? Next door?’ He smiles as if we have offended him. ‘Sorry, but I don’t really pay attention to what my neighbours do. But, if it’s helpful or not, I can definitely say that I have never seen this man in my life.’

  35

  The incident room is buzzing. I can feel the sense of hope and expectation. In stark contrast with earlier, when everyone thought we had reached a dead end and Guthrie was threatening to reduce the hours spent on it, the mood is now optimistic. I don’t know the details yet, but it feels like the double murder is about to be cracked.