37
My rain-soaked collar clings to my neck and my shoes are making squelching sounds when I arrive at the station. By then the rain has blown over and the sky is clearing to the west, offering a small strip of sunlight just above the horizon.
The entrance hall is deserted. The desk officer is Philpo, short for Phil Philpott, a retired policeman. He ‘d been looking forward to his retirement for years, saving money and making plans to travel the world with his wife, but a few weeks before his retirement day, his wife was diagnosed with acute kidney problems and she died within three months. Going mad in his empty house, not wanting to travel on his own, he came back to the police force and is mostly stands in for former colleagues during their holidays.
Clean shaven and sad eyed, he is sitting behind the counter and reading a paper, catching up on the background stories of Alicia Poole and Wilbur Torrington, regardless of whether they have been accurately written by the reporters or not.
‘Evening,’ Philpo says, gazing over the rim of his reading glasses that are hanging from his neck by a yellow cord. ‘Can I help you, sir?’ He sounds as if he is wondering if I am a colleague or someone he arrested during his career.
‘I’m Tregunna.’ I can’t blame him for not recognising me. I wouldn’t have recognised him either, but for his name on the desk, as we’ve only met briefly.
He stares at my ID, not seeing any point in apologising. ‘Most of them have gone home,’ he shrugs, ‘They haven’t found that guy yet, though. Search is to be continued tomorrow morning.’
I nod. The station would be buzzing if Bennett was being held in one of the cells by now. Everyone would be working very hard to make sure that he wouldn’t be released after the designated time he could be legally held in custody without being charged.
‘Do you know if Maloney is still here?’
‘He left with DCI Guthrie …' He looks at his watch, ‘… seven minutes ago. Didn’t you see them in the car park?’
I shake my head. ‘Penrose?’
‘Haven’t seen her.’
‘DS Reed?’ I try my last option.
‘Ollie? He’s in. He said something about staying here the night.’ He frowns. Uncertain. ‘His neighbours are having a house-warming party. Or something. He can’t stand their choice of music.’
‘Thank you.’
I find Ollie staring at the coffee machine as though he needs to read the instructions first. Turning his head to give me a nod, he presses a button and waits for the machine to come to life, coughing and shuddering until it spits out coffee that looks like tar. He stares at it, muttering about having pressed the button for extra milk.
‘Try again,’ I say. ‘I have my coffee black.’
He does. It has the same result. With a shrug of defeat, he sips the coffee and spits it out instantly.
‘Sorry. I’m not in a good mood.’
‘I know the feeling,’ I reply casually. ‘Perhaps I should have brought some doughnuts. The sugar rush will help.’
He shakes his head. ‘I’ve just had my tea. Microwave meal, but good. Really good. Chicken Kiev with new potatoes and broccoli. Ever tried it?’
‘No. My mother doesn’t approve of those meals. Every now and then she checks my fridge and freezer and gives me a bollocking if she finds a frozen meal from a supermarket.’ I grin to try to put Ollie at ease. ‘She only believes in fresh food. British food. She doesn’t even buy sprouts in summer or lettuce in winter. Never used to be available in her childhood, she says.’
‘No curry or lasagne?’ he asks sympathetically.
No lasagne, but she is of the opinion that curry is part of the British menu.’
The hint of a grin crosses his face. ‘Mine is only worried about saturated fats, carbohydrates and sugars.’
As if we’ve reached a mutual understanding, we walk to a small room that is intended for meetings with superiors or work assessments. The table and four chairs are littered with files and papers spilling out of boxes. Ollie clears one of the chairs and I sit on the edge of the table.
‘I’m here because of my new neighbours,’ he explains, unasked. He pinches the bridge of his nose and squeezes his eyes shut. ‘They’ve been knocking down walls and doors, replacing the floors and God knows what else. They’ve been at it for months, driving me mad with the banging and the noise of electric tools. Not to mention shouting and yelling when they’ve had a disagreement. And that happened so often that it amazes me that they are still together. Anyway, they finally moved in a couple of days ago and they’re still yelling and shouting at each other.’
‘Can you still hear them?’
He nods gravely. ‘You would have thought that they would have put something some insulation but apparently not.’
‘Philpo said something about a house-warming party.’
‘I wish. Unless having loud music and lots of friends round all the time is their idea of having multiple house-warming parties. They do it more or less every day.’
‘Have you spoken to them about it?’
He raises his eyebrows quizzically. ‘Are you serious? They know I’m police. They know the law. They know they turn it off between 11pm and 7am. Besides, they say I’m always welcome to join them.’
‘Friendly neighbours.’
‘Oh, they are friendly alright, I’m not complaining about that. It’s just … the noise they make. Sometimes I can’t stand it.’
‘Turn up your own TV or radio a bit louder.’
‘I don’t want things to escalate. They’ve just moved in. we might have to live next door to each other for ages.’ Pulling a face, he looks as though the thought of it makes him consider his options.
We’ve barely touched our coffees. I contemplate suggesting we find a café near the police station and get some decent coffee.
‘Funny thing, insulation,’ he continues after a short pause. ‘Their house isn’t even joined to mine. They share a wall with the other neighbours, but I seem to get the bulk of the annoyance.’
‘It’s important that you get enough sleep and …’
‘You sound like my mother.’
‘Perhaps mothers are right.’
‘Yeah, well, I don’t know. They have a little girl. Three years old, I think. She likes to dance, but it is more like jumping, if you ask me. I can hardly hear the music, but I do hear her jumping up and down all the time.’
‘Perhaps this is all about perception. We tend to get upset about noises we don’t like and especially music that is not to our taste. It annoys you, like the music in some shops. But if we like it, we like going to that shop.’
‘Is that the psychology?’
‘I believe so.’
Something clicks in my brain. Something that has been nagging at me for a long while. Sam Collins. Thinking out loud, I tell Ollie all about the hammering sounds. The neighbour, the young mother I met, said it could be anyone in the building. And she’s right. Sound travels in the form of vibrating airwaves which, when they bounce off walls, can create echo-like sounds,
Collins was annoyed by the hammering and my guess is that it had been going on for a while. We put up with annoying sounds to start with but if they continue, they can incite our anger. Collins went into a bedroom and banged on the wall. Why would he bang on the wall if he didn’t know for sure where the noise was coming from?
I take my phone out. Find Mrs Holt’s mobile number in my contacts list. Press buttons.
She answers with caution in her voice as if she’s not expecting anyone to call.
Ollie reed is staring at me, wondering what he might have said to distract me from our conversation.
‘Mrs Holt, my name is Andy Tregunna.’ I glance at my watch. ‘Sorry to bother you at this time of the evening, but I have a question. You spoke to my colleagues earlier and …’
‘You are the police inspector?’ she interrupts, sounding happier. She sounds like she had a couple of glasses of wine with her evening meal.
‘I am. I hav
e just one short question for you, Mrs Holt, if you don’t mind?’
‘Of course not. We’ve just finished our tea. So, what’s your question?’
I hear the rattle of cutlery on crockery. A tap running briefly. We, she said. Our meal.
‘Are you with someone, Mrs Holt?’
‘Yes, of course. Sam always does the cooking. He has …’
‘Sam Collins? Your neighbour?’
‘Yes, of course, we’re …’
I shake my head with frustration. I omitted to ask Collins anything about his relationship with his neighbour. He called her Mrs Holt and I assumed that they were just that. Neighbours. A nod, a polite greeting, helping each other out in an emergency. Nothing more.
‘Mrs Holt, one quick question, although I might know the answer already.’ The question I had for her has dissolved. Instead, I ask, ‘Does Mr Collins, Sam, have a key to your flat?’
‘Does he … yes of course he has. What …?’
‘That’s all, Mrs Holt, thank you.’
‘What was that about?’ Ollie asks, intrigued as soon as he heard Collins’s name. He’s heard about my little escapade to the flat with Penrose. He knows that Maloney wasn’t pleased about it.
‘Would you bang on your neighbour’s wall when you heard a noise, any noise, but you knew they weren’t there? Wouldn’t you have a quick look if you heard something in your neighbour’s house, if you knew there was nobody there, and you had a key?’
I don’t wait for his answer. I pour the dregs of my coffee into a sad looking plant in a dark corner and crunch the plastic cup in my fist.
‘Sorry, Ollie, I need to check something.’
‘Would you like me to come with you?’
‘That won’t be necessary.’
‘I’m not convinced,’ I say, smiling briefly. ‘But I think I need to do this alone. In case I cock it up again. Go home, Ollie, wear some earplugs and, if you can still hear your neighbour’s music, just try to enjoy it.’
38
There are twice as many cars in the car park since I was in Penmar Road with Penrose. And twice as many teenagers are hanging round. Their presence makes me feel a bit uncomfortable. Or perhaps I am prejudiced, which makes me as bad as people who spray paint on boards to let the world know that they don’t want migrants in this neighbourhood. Maybe not as bad though as the 23-year-old guy who could have killed someone when he set fire to the flat on the second floor. I have checked it out: an only child of a respectable couple who have always worked hard to be able to afford his education. He has become a selfish young man who fucked up his jobs, stole petty cash from the company he worked for and was too stupid to realise that he would be caught. He’s now become a couch potato, flicking through TV-channels his only physical exercise. Bored and lazy and blaming everyone else for his own failures.
Once more, I climb the stairs and walk along the walkway, hearing loud music and laughter, a dog barking, arguing voices. The smell of curry hangs in the air, mixed with burnt onions.
I can see light behind the curtains in Mr Collins’s flat. I can visualise him sitting on his sofa watching an episode of David Attenborough’s travels around the globe. Sipping milky tea. Dunking cheap biscuits. He’s just that type.
I’m relieved to see that the lights in Mrs Holt’s flat at the end of the walkway are on.
The kitchen blinds are down, but the slats are half open. I cup my hands against the glass and peer through the gaps between the slats, letting my eyes adjust to the bright fluorescent light inside. The otherwise tidy kitchen is disturbed by something broken on the floor. Glass.
Somehow, it seems as if time is standing still, as though something is about to happen. A sense of unease is growing within me. I imagine Penrose standing still beside me, a question of doubt in her tone when suggesting calling for back-up. I should call, Maloney maybe, but will he listen? I don’t even know what I’m doing here myself. Everyone is focused on finding Trevor Bennett as the main suspect in the double murder case. They’re checking train and bus stations, questioning cab drivers, talking to his friends, relatives and work colleagues, widening the area as they search the towns and rural areas.
But I know that the extensive search for Bennett isn’t the reason why I don’t make the call for back-up. It’s my stubbornness that I try to conceal which would be regarded as arrogance.
I walk past the front door without knocking on it. The curtains of the room next to the front door are partially open. The bed is covered with a layer of sheets and blankets and a duvet without a cover. On top of it is an open suitcase, partially filled with rolled-up socks and folded shirts. Mrs Holt, packing for a holiday? Or a weekend away to see a mother, a sister, a relative, somewhere up country?
I knock on the door. Nothing happens. Knock again, harder. Nothing. I can hear footsteps, but they could be of someone on the walkway above or below me. I wait. Hesitate. I contemplate calling on Sam Collins again to ask him if he knows where Marcie Holt is. When I spoke to her I’m sure he was with her by the sound of rattling crockery. She might have told him about my call. She might have repeated my question to him.
I put my hand on her door handle, thinking, listening, almost hoping that someone will turn up with a key. Unconsciously, I press the handle. The door opens. I am too surprised to act immediately. I look over my shoulder, checking to see if there isn’t anyone behind me playing tricks on. A shiver runs down my spine. I feel uncomfortable, exposed and vulnerable, as if I’m being watched.
The door opens into a narrow hallway.
‘Hello? Mrs Holt? Are you there?’
No response. I am only greeted by silence. The flat is cold and musty, as though the heating hasn’t been turned on for the last couple of weeks. My footsteps are absorbed by a beige carpet. It reminds me of the carpet in Mr Collins’s flat. The only open door leads into the kitchen. Broken glass litters the floor. It looks so out of place in the neat, orderly flat that I stare at it. Did Marcie Holt have an accident, did she drop a glass, two maybe and cut herself on the shards? Did she go to Collins for medical help?
I call again, but there doesn’t appear to be anyone in the flat. I know I shouldn’t be here. I know I should go. I stand in the doorway to the kitchen, my eyes scanning every item. There is an electric kettle on the spotless counter. It’s cold. The fridge is humming softly. I open it. It’s empty, except for a bottle of milk. Unopened. One of the cupboards holds a diversity of a few coffee mugs, one with two teaspoons in it, an opened package of sugar, a small jar of coffee granules and a ‘get 50% extra’ box of teabags behind the mugs.
The lounge has the feeling of faded decadency, with its L-shaped sofa, embroidered pillows and throws printed with pink and red roses. The crystal bowls with potpourri take me back to my childhood, when it was fashionable. At one side is a small desk with a computer on it. It’s turned off, but when I check the unit, it is still warm. Clearly, it has recently been used. If it was used by Marcie Holt, then she must have been here since I called her. But where is she now?
She let it slip that she had a meal with Sam Collins and that he always did the cooking, so she must have been in his flat. Not hers. She may still be next door.
Once more, aware that I might frighten her to death, I call her name. Repeat it. Let her know I am here, who I am. Still nothing.
I open the bathroom door and slide the plastic shower curtain to one side. Nothing. Staring in the mirror of the cabinet above the sink, I open it. A new tube of toothpaste and some dental floss. Deodorants. Five different brands. The cupboard under the sink holds a pile of clean folded towels and boxes of tissues and wet wipes. Bleach and toilet cleaner. I can see no painkillers, throat lozenges or other medicines. It seems like nobody lives permanently. It feels like I’m in a hotel.
Calling Marcie’s name again with little hope, I cross the hallway, listening keenly, filtering out muffled sounds from elsewhere in the building: the murmur of a television, music, footsteps.
The main bedroom i
s almost as unlived in as the rest of the flat. The bed is king-size, with a classic looking, metal frame in a chrome and white finish. It has pink satin duvet cover and matching pillows, bedside tables each with the pale pink lampshades and clear glass ashtrays. On one is a remote control for the flat screen TV on the wall opposite the bed. The red standby light is on. A DVD player sits on a white dressing table. Above it, is an oval mirror. Opening the only drawer I find there is no ladies underwear or make up or any of the usual things you would expect to find in a bedroom. Instead, there is a neat row of DVDs. Scanning the titles, I see a selection of porn films, ranging from soft to hard porn.
The large white wardrobe has three doors, the centre one with a full-length mirror. It rattles when I open is. Once more, I am surprised to see its contents. I have never met Marcie Holt but I was expecting to find more than just a couple of black skirts and blue blouses and a printed scarf.
The only items that seem slightly out of place are a man’s black towelling bathrobe and a ladies pink satin dressing gown with white lace and little fake diamonds sewn along the edges. The scent of something flowery mixes with that of dust.
All of a sudden, I become aware of the hammering sound again. It seems closer than when I heard it in Collins’s flat, but I smile inwardly, thinking about what I told Ollie Reed about the movement of sound waves.
There is a cold draught around my ankles and I turn on my heels. ‘Marcie? Mrs Holt?’
Nothing.
There is one other smaller bedroom which I peered into from outside. Surprisingly, the door is locked but the key is in the lock. The door opens inwards and the hammering sounds stop abruptly. It’s a bit dark with its partially closed curtains. My hand finds a light switch and a bright energy saving light bulb slowly comes on. There’s nobody here either, but the smell is different. Sweat and stale breath.
The only furniture is a double bed, the same style as the one in the main bedroom, only smaller. The open suitcase I saw when I looked through the window is on the unmade bed. On the floor beside it is a pair of trainers, mud and sand stuck to the sides which is uncharacteristic of the rest of the clean and tidy flat. For no apparent reason, a chain, the size of a dog’s leash, is looped around one of the legs of the bed.
COVER THE LIES: A TREGUNNA CORNISH CRIME NOVEL Page 28
