COVER THE LIES: A TREGUNNA CORNISH CRIME NOVEL

by Carla Vermaat

  I lean toward the microphone, flicking the button to speak in Maloney’s earpiece.

  ‘Philip, don’t say anything about Marcie.’

  Maloney is the last person I would trust in a game of poker. He turns his head and stares at the one-way mirror, as if he can see me, wondering why I’m interfering. His expression has changed in such a way that both Collins and Guthrie instantly look in the same direction.

  ‘He wants to know if we have found her and what she has told us,’ I add, hoping that Guthrie keeps quiet for a few more seconds.

  ‘Mr Collins,’ starts Maloney with admirable calmness, considering that Guthrie is now fidgeting with a pen, still looking perplexed. ‘Where were you between midnight and 3 am, on the night of Saturday 25th and the morning of Sunday 26th March?’

  Patiently, Collins shakes his head as if he is tired of the whole situation. ‘I need to know if Marcie’s all right. She’s my friend. I care about her.’

  Muttering under my breath, I shake my head. This is going the wrong way. Collins is clever; he has an evasive answer to every question.

  ‘Mr Collins, you have been charged with the murder of Alicia Poole.’

  ‘I didn’t kill her.’

  ‘You are denying the charges?’

  ‘Of course. This is ridiculous.’ Collins seems to be enjoying exaggerating the role of the victim of mistaken identity.

  ‘Where were you at midnight on Saturday 25th March?’

  ‘At home.’

  ‘Can anyone corroborate that?’

  ‘Yes. My friend Marcie. I’d like to know if she is alright.’

  My fists are clenched. Collins seems to be in charge of the conversation. I must admit that his position is strong. Any evidence we have found so far, is only circumstantial. There is little hard evidence to prove that he was at the fishing pond and killed Alicia. He has admitted that he spoke to her in the Central Bar, and that he followed her to Barrie’s Bar. From Newquay, he said he drove on the coast road in the direction of Padstow. It was a clear night and he wanted to watch the stars so he headed towards Trevose Lighthouse, but turned back when he found the gate to the toll road closed. He then went to the National Trust’s car park at Bedruthan Steps. Conveniently, he can’t remember exactly where he walked and any evidence we might have found at the scene of Torrington’s death could be from that occasion. He came home just after midnight and he is certain that his friend and neighbour can corroborate that.

  I press the button on the microphone. ‘Philip, ask him about his role as godfather.’

  I see the first syllable being formed on Maloney’s lips. Then he nods vaguely and obediently repeats the question.

  The result is beyond comprehension. Even I am astounded by Collins’s reaction. His eyes widen and he sits up straight, putting his hands around the edge of the table as if he is planning to rise to his feet and give a sermon of doom and gloom to an unrepentant congregation. The police officer standing in the corner has so far been looking stoic and disinterested but is now moving his feet, ready to grab Collins in case he gets up.

  ‘Why do you call yourself godfather, Mr Collins?’ Maloney asks.

  ‘This has nothing to do with Alicia’s death!’ Collins hisses between his teeth. His cheeks are flushed pink and his eyes narrow with sudden weariness: his confidence is visibly deflating like someone sucking air out of a plastic bag.

  ‘It helps us form a complete picture of you, Mr Collins,’ Maloney continues unperturbed. ‘We’d like to know why you call yourself ‘godfather.’

  Collins is rapidly losing control. He slaps his hand on the table. Yelling. ‘I am proud of what I did!’ His whole face is now turning bright red with anger and frustration. Then, for a moment, he is silent. Perhaps he is shocked by his loss of control, wondering what triggered the outburst. His eyes shoot from Maloney to Guthrie and back. A wild animal suddenly in danger not knowing in which direction to flee. Then his arrogance, fuelled by anger, takes over again. He stretches his shoulders as if he expects the detectives to tap on them to congratulate him.

  ‘Nobody understands how important I am!’ he yells, his voice full of self-importance. ‘They call me the godfather. I am the godfather.’

  Although the expression on Guthrie’s face tells me that he doesn’t have a clue what Maloney is driving at, he seems quite happy for him to carry on.

  ‘A godfather is not as important as a father,’ I say in Maloney’s ear and he repeats my words in almost exactly the same tone

  This time Collins explodes. The officer in the corner steps forward, reaching for the hand cuffs that dangle from his belt. Maloney stretches out an arm to warn and stop him.

  ‘Tell us about Briony. Why you were so angry with her mother.’

  ‘I am the girl’s father! Don’t you understand? I am her father. I have a right to interfere when Alicia neglects her role as a mother.’

  Ignoring everyone except my voice in his earpiece, Maloney proceeds. ‘So that was the reason why you killed her?’ he asks flatly.

  Collins can’t stop himself. I see panic in his eyes as he realises that he is digging his own grave, but he can’t control himself to calm down and think before talking.

  ‘The bitch! I just wanted to scare her off. But she laughed at me. She laughed in my face, calling me a pathetic little nothing. A useless sodding bastard. She said I was the scum of the earth. Worthless. Not even worthy to say her daughter’s name, let alone get to know the kid.’’

  Red blotches form on his now pale face. As he becomes aware of Maloney casting a sideways glance at the one-way mirror, I see hatred appear in Collins’s eyes.

  ‘He’s here? Tregunna? That bastard? Watching me? I should have killed him when I had the chance!’

  ‘Mr Collins,’ Maloney interrupts calmly. ‘I must warn you again about your rights. If you change your mind and you want to take the opportunity to have a lawyer with you, we can stop …’

  Collins doesn’t listen. Instead, he continues, almost triumphantly, ‘That guy Torrington was just a … nuisance, a mistake … but she … she deserved to die. She lied to me. She never intended to let me see the girl. My own daughter! And when I confronted her with the fact that she wasn’t even a good mother, that she was nearly arrested by the police in Portugal, she laughed in my face. She laughed and threatened to tell everyone about me. She said it was illegal to sell my semen to desperate couples and she would expose me. Stop me. She didn’t realise how important I am.’

  He folds his arms again across his chest and looks at us with a weird smile on his face. It is the smile of a mad man.

  42

  Although I had a vague idea about it, the details of the combined stories of Trevor Bennett and Marcie Holt have astounded us all.

  In their late teens and early twenties, Trevor Bennett and Sam Collins belonged to the same group of friends. They became rivals when they both fell in love with Alicia, nee Marshall. She married Trevor. Despite the fact that she was never interested in Collins, he didn’t stop loving her and he remained hopeful that she would turn to him eventually. He saw his chance when he learned that Trevor Bennett, after a string of disappointments and treatment in fertility clinics for nearly six years, was almost infertile. He offered to become a sperm donor and father a child with Alicia. His reason was pure selfishness, not generosity; Sam Collins hoped that a child would bind him to Alicia, and that, eventually, she would leave Trevor.

  The couple couldn’t foresee what would happen in the future. They were delighted with their daughter Briony and when Sam said that he wanted to have a special relationship with the girl, they understood his feelings and granted his request by naming him their daughter’s godfather. A situation that seemed to work in Briony’s first year.

  Collins had had a lonely, loveless childhood and he’d vowed that he would never have children of his own. He had never met his own father and grew up with a mother who could never set her bitterness aside. He found it quite liberating that he could have offspri
ng without the responsibility of having to raise them. He formed, in his own words, ‘a master plan’ to set up a private little business. He placed small advertisements in local papers and came in contact with couples like Alicia and Trevor, who were desperate to have a child but had been unsuccessful with fertility treatment. Alicia and Trevor weren’t pleased at all when Collins boasted that Briony would soon have a half-sister or half-brother, the first of many, he hoped. A boy, Sammie, was born and the situation changed when the mother of this second child was left by her husband and in desperation she turned to Collins for help. He was pleased that he was able to see his son and his contact with the boy, seeing him growing up, made him determined to get more involved in Bryony’s life. However, his efforts had the opposite result: Alicia and Trevor started avoiding him and, eventually, they moved without telling him their new address. At first Collins was angry and frustrated and finally he became obsessed with finding them.

  When he discovered that Alicia and her little family had moved to Cornwall, he followed them.

  Marcie Holt was a troubled young woman whose husband left her after the death of their premature baby. She refused to accept the divorce and, when Collins met her, she let him believe that her husband had gone away for a short period of time.

  For Collins, she was perfect, providing him with a plausible cover story. He managed to rent a flat next door to her and persuaded her to move in with him so that he could use her flat to run his ‘business’. To secure his relatively anonymous existence as a sperm donor, the flat still remained in Marcie’s name. He spent a lot of time in his ‘office’ to keep in contact with the mothers of his children through email, telephone and video-calls. In this way, he knew all about their home life, their progress at school, even about illnesses and minor injuries. He also arranged initial meetings with couples who were potential new customers in various coffee shops and as soon as they reached an agreement, he invited them to Marcie’s flat where he explained the procedure. The women would let him know when they were ovulating and they would then return to Marcie’s flat with their partners. Collins had made it clear that he wouldn’t be emotionally involved in the procedure, but he was willing either to inseminate the women by having sex with them or he would provide his semen so that they could use it in more relaxed privacy in the specially furbished bedroom. He even set up a TV and DVD player to create the right atmosphere for the nervous couples and make the conception feel as natural as possible.

  Collins kept denying that killing Alicia that night was premeditated. He knew she and Trevor were divorced. He’d found Trevor’s new address and he admitted that he had contacted him to try to force them to let him be in contact with Briony. Trevor refused. He claimed that he accidentally saw Alicia having a drink in a bar in Newquay with a friend. He offered her a drink, but she refused and, he stated, he accepted her wish to leave her alone. After a few drinks, he decided to try again, but he couldn’t find her and he assumed she’d gone home, after which he also went home to Marcie, who, he was sure, would be able to confirm this. When I called Marcie and he overheard the conversation, he panicked. He realised that by kidnapping Trevor Bennett he had made a big mistake. Trevor had no idea about Collins’s involvement in Alicia’s murder, but thought that when Collins kidnapped him it was in order to force him to sign over the parenting of Briony to Collins. But with Trevor missing, the police were closing in on him and he knew then that Bennett had to die too. The situation was becoming precarious as he realised that I was on my way and that Marcie knew too much as well. He saw me arriving, he knocked me unconscious and knew he had no other option than to run.

  43

  It’s after midnight when I arrive at the house that is now my home. Mine and Lauren’s, Stuart’s and Joe’s. There is talk about a dog, but it hasn’t been decided whether it will be a puppy or a rescue dog. The front door key is in my pocket, on a new key ring: a small metal oval with the word ‘home’ on it. Letting myself in, I use the glow of the street lights to find my way along the hallway, dodging trainers and boots and school rucksacks. Trying not to make a sound, I go into the living room and slump on the couch, closing my eyes and pressing my thumbs against my temples. I’m too tired to get up the stairs, too wired to sleep.

  ‘Hello.’

  Lauren is standing in the doorway. Her red hair catches the light from behind her. It’s like she is surrounded by a halo of light and sunshine. She’s wearing a long satin nightdress the colour of champagne, which I bought for her to celebrate … I can’t remember the exact occasion. She looks gorgeous and I feel my heart swell with love and pride. And with lust.

  ‘I saw the news,’ she says. ‘What a horrible man. The idea …’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Has he confessed?’

  ‘Eventually.’

  I look into her eyes and see love and compassion in them. I feel tears coming. I try to hold them back, but she sits beside me and presses her face to mine. She wraps her arms around me, hugging me like I am one of her boys.

  But I’m only dreaming.

  Dreams can come true, but nothing happens by itself. My hands are trembling and my heartbeat has gone up. Just thinking of Lauren has that effect on me. I’m in my own flat. It’s cold and empty. The kettle is boiling and I make my coffee, spooning ground coffee beans into a paper filter and waiting for the water to drip through, then I sit at the window with the view of the hills beyond the Gannel spread before me. The moon is only a crescent, but it is spreading a silvery light on the landscape making it look like I’m living in a fairy tale. I close my eyes as I let the warmth of the coffee slip back over my throat, and try to focus on what it is I need to do now. The case is about to be closed and technically I’m not needed any more. It’s up to other people now to make sure that Sam Collins gets what he deserves. A life-long sentence, if I have a say in it, thinking not only about the people he’d murdered and the impact on their families but also about the couples like the Jennings desperate to have a child and the children he fathered whose lives would never be the same once they know the truth about him.

  DCI Guthrie has counted up my hours and, in his usual, unsympathetic way, gave me the devastating news: I have worked so many hours that I have to go off duty for five weeks. The thought of being in my own company for a whole day is terrifying enough. I can’t bear the idea that it will be more than

  a month. It almost makes me want a new murder to

  be committed …

  With mixed feelings, I turn my head and stare into the kitchen. I struggle to face what I know I’ll have to do now. There are no excuses to postpone it any longer. I have waited too long already.

  The bouquet of mixed white and pink flowers has been in the sink since yesterday. I can’t leave them there and let them wither away. I pick up the flowers, let the stems drip for a while and dry them with a tea towel.

  I haven’t called Lauren. She told Curtis, my neighbour who was playing Cupid on our behalf that she was waiting to hear from me. I’m not someone who can’t say sorry. I am sorry about the whole thing. I should not have left her like I did on that evening. There are no excuses for that sort of behaviour. It was stupid and unnecessary. On several occasions, she came with me when I had an appointment with my doctors in Treliske Hospital in Truro and she has been very supportive and understanding. I should have told her about my struggle with impotence. She would have understood. She will, hopefully.

  Tonight, if she lets me in, I will tell her about it. I will explain how insecure I felt, and still do, and how I was afraid I wasn’t worthy of her. I will explain everything, even perhaps tell her about my true feelings, and then, as instructed by Curtis, let her decide if she wants to have a relationship with me or not.

  I will explain, without telling her the details, without telling her about the embarrassing, humiliating episode with Denise Shaw, that I know that even the Viagra pills aren’t working for me. For that reason, I feel I haven’t got much to offer. Other than my love and support. I
can only hope that she will say that the physical side of the relationship isn’t so important. True, but how long for? Are there any alternatives? Yes, maybe, but still, none of the options will make me feel a hundred per cent a man. I’ll be a failure to her. The bottom line is that it is very possible that she will send me away.

  Today, I have much more stamina and optimism as I walk along the path on the steep hill near the boating lake. I feel pleased that I have finally made a decision. I can’t do any more than that. It’s up to Lauren to decide what she wants. Whatever that might be, I will have to accept it.

  The street I know so well is deserted. I can see her house as I get closer. My hands are clammy. A woman opens a door nearby and stands on the doorstep, looking at me, smiling, lighting a cigarette. I feel ridiculously vulnerable, holding the flowers against my chest for support and confidence.

  To get to Lauren’s front door, I have to walk past the window of her living room first. I wasn’t going to look, but I can’t stop myself, hoping to see her sitting on the couch, watching TV or reading a magazine or a book. She isn’t. She has just entered the room. Dressed in a simple black dress, her hair held on top of her head, long, golden earrings dangling in her neck. She looks gorgeous and I feel my heart warming. I can’t believe that I waited so long to see her again, how many weeks it has taken me to swallow my pride and make up my mind.

  Then I freeze. Something is wrong. She has two mugs in her hands. One is yellow, the other purple. I see the smile on her face widen as she kicks the door closed behind her with the heel of her shoe. Then she laughs and I can see her saying something to a man who is sitting on the couch. I don’t know him. I don’t need to know. He is handsome and relaxed. I have no doubt that he is a good lover.

  He says something and she throws her head back in laughter. She looks happy and carefree, confident.