by Rena George
Abbie shook her head. ‘Well no, actually…not at all. Kit and I just appreciate how lovely and quiet it is here at the moment. Besides,’ She lifted her glass and took another sip. ‘Lawrence has been absolutely wonderful. He’s arranged to take the Vincents and us to St Ives tomorrow to paint down at the harbour. I think it’s his way of trying to cheer us all up.’
‘He’s a nice man,’ Loveday murmured. ‘I’m sure you’ll all have a wonderful time.’
‘Will you be there?’ Kit asked, a hopeful look in her eye.
Loveday shook her head. ‘Sorry, I can’t manage that. But I do still want to interview everyone for my article. Maybe in a few days we could meet up for a chat?’ She saw the look that passed between the women, and to dispel any thoughts that she might still question them about finding the body, quickly added, ‘You know the sort thing, how you enjoyed the painting experience, what you got out of it.’
‘A lot more than we expected,’ Kit said gloomily.
‘Yes, it’s really spoiled things for you,’ she sympathised.
‘They were spoiled before this morning,’ Kit said flatly.
The woman looked so despondent that Loveday wanted to go round the table and hug her. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to rake all this up again.’
Kit smiled. ‘It’s not your fault, Loveday.’ Glancing at Abbie she added. ‘And we would love to help with your article.’
Their food arrived and as the mouth-watering aromas reached Loveday she realised she hadn’t eaten since breakfast. Conversation was suspended as they tucked in to their supper. Abbie and Loveday ate heartily, but Kit merely moved her food around the plate.
‘Not very hungry,’ she said apologetically, when she caught Loveday’s concerned glance.
Judging by the woman’s painfully thin appearance, Loveday wondered exactly what she did eat.
‘What are you planning to do while you’re here?’ she asked.
Abbie lifted the wine bottle and replenished Loveday’s glass. Kit hadn’t appeared to have even touched her drink. ‘We haven’t decided yet,’ she said. ‘Perhaps you could recommend something?’
Loveday laughed. ‘Well just about everywhere in Cornwall is worth a visit, especially if you’re staying on for a bit longer.’
Kit was looking miserable again.
But Abbie appeared in high spirits. ‘We have a holiday to enjoy and we’re determined to do that.’ She looked across at her friend. ‘Aren’t we, Kit?’
The woman forced a bright smile. ‘Of course we are.’
Loveday bit back her annoyance. Why couldn’t Abbie see just how miserable her friend was? If she actually was a friend, that is. It wasn’t how Loveday treated her friends. Kit so obviously just wanted to go home and nurse her grief…and who was to say that she shouldn’t?
But she squared her shoulders and told them about the spectacular Minnack Theatre, the current exhibitions at the Tate in St Ives, and listed her favourite historic houses. ‘How long have you got?’ she added, laughing. ‘Because those are only a few of the places you could visit. You must take a trip up the River Fal. It’s absolutely beautiful – even at this time of year.’
‘I love boats,’ Abbie’s eyes sparkled with what Loveday felt was the first real interest she’d seen in either of the women.
‘So you’re a sailor?’ Loveday asked.
‘Heavens, no. I’ve never set foot on a boat in my life,’ she said quickly. ‘But I love looking at them…all those yachts at anchor…I could sit for hours just watching them come and go, imagining what exotic places they’d visited…and where they were sailing off to next.’
The look on Kit’s face suggested she did not share her friend’s enthusiasm.
There was a sadness about the woman that Loveday felt sure went even deeper than the recent loss of her sister. But then, if they had been really close…
The pub was filling up. People standing around the bar, glasses in their hands, were glancing around the tables for signs of anyone preparing to leave. Abbie didn’t look as if she had any intention of moving on any time soon. She was signaling for the menu to be brought back.
Loveday smiled, reaching for her bag.
‘You’re not going?’ Kit said, ‘You haven’t had a sweet, yet.’
Loveday put on an apologetic face. ‘I’m afraid I must. There’s a whole heap of work waiting for me back at my cottage, and it won’t do itself.’ She stood up smiling and extended a hand to each woman in turn. ‘Thank you for the lovely supper. I've really enjoyed our chat.’
‘Perhaps we can do it again before we go home?’ Abbie suggested.
‘Why not? But you must come to the cottage next time. I’ll cook for you,’ Loveday offered, and immediately regretted the rash invitation.
‘Have you heard any more from the police, by the way?’ Abbie asked as Loveday turned to go.
She swung round, surprised. ‘Well, no, but then I wouldn’t expect to.’
‘I thought the police had to keep the press informed of developments in a case like this.’
Loveday frowned. ‘I would hardly describe Cornish Folk as ‘the press’. As I said before, the magazine doesn’t cover news stories.’
‘But you must be privy to what’s going on,’ Abbie persisted ‘…I mean, you’ll have colleagues on newspapers who would be in the know.’ She smiled teasingly at Loveday. ‘Now don’t tell me you don’t talk to each other?’
‘For heavens sake, Abbie, stop interrogating her,’ Kit snapped, turning to Loveday. ‘I apologise for my friend. Abbie gets carried away sometimes.’
There was an awkward silence before Abbie said, ‘Kit’s right. I’m sorry. It’s just that we can’t stop thinking about that poor man.’
Loveday had been doing her best to avoid thinking about the horrors of that morning.
‘The police really haven’t been back in touch with me. If I knew any more about what was going on I would tell you.’
But as she started her car outside the pub, she wondered if that was true.
It was properly dark when she drove back into Marazion. The last thing she expected was to meet another vehicle emerging from her driveway. She braked hard as the driver of the old silver Lexus lowered his window and indicated for Loveday to do the same.
‘This is a bit of luck,’ said Detective Inspector Sam Kitto. ‘I wanted a word with you, but your neighbour…Mrs Trevellick?…told me you’d gone out for the evening.’
It was the first time she’d heard his voice and the rich Cornish burr sparked a strange fluttering in her chest. His eyes were just as dark as she had initially thought – a deep, melting brown. And right at that moment they were fixed intently on hers.
She opened her mouth to speak, but Sam was there first. ‘Look, I’ll turn further along the seafront and come back. Can we have a chat?’
The last thing she wanted was to go over the day’s events again. But maybe telling them to those deep brown eyes might not be so bad.
She lifted her chin. Whatever odd things were happening to her insides, she had no intention of letting him know about it. ‘Well you seem to have tracked me down, Inspector,’ she said coolly. ‘ Although, isn’t this a bit late in the evening for interviews?’
‘This isn’t an interview, Miss Ross, it’s just a chat. I won’t keep you any longer than necessary...I promise.’ He was studying her, and she was glad it was dark for annoyingly, her cheeks suddenly felt hot.
‘Would you like a drink?’ she asked, turning to the fridge after he followed her through the back door and into the kitchen.
He eyed the wine bottle she was opening and reluctantly shook his head. ‘I expect you’ll have been going over in your mind what happened this morning.’
‘I’ve been trying not to think about it,’ Loveday said.
Sam nodded. ‘Understandable. But sometimes things come back – little things that maybe you didn’t consider worth mentioning first time.’ He raised his shoulders in a questioning shrug. ‘...Something y
ou might not even have thought of before.’
‘I’ve already told your officers everything I can remember.’
‘What about when you first arrived on the clifftop, Miss Ross, before the others came. Did you see anyone else…someone out walking maybe?’
Loveday wished he would stop calling her Miss Ross. She tried to think, but there had been no one else at Borlase that morning…or if there was then she hadn’t seen them.
Sam nodded, ‘OK. So how long had you been there before the others turned up?’
She shrugged. ‘About half an hour I suppose.’ She saw his eyebrow arch slightly and rushed on defensively. ‘I wanted to get there early…to do a recce.’
‘A recce?’
‘Yes, check out the area…select the best sites for the pictures, that kind of thing.’
‘Of course,’ he said. ‘You’re a journalist.’
He’d said the word as though he’d only just remembered. But he didn’t fool her. She knew he would have made it his business to know exactly who she was. She wasn’t sure she liked his little deception…but he was a policeman, and as he said, this was a murder inquiry.
‘Did you go anywhere near the cliff edge?’
‘No…well not until we went looking for Flossie.’
‘Flossie?’
‘Lawrence’s dog.’
Loveday frowned. ‘Excuse me, Inspector, but why are you even asking this? Surely whoever killed that poor man got to the cove by boat.’
‘Why would you assume that?’ Sam had a way of looking at her that made her blood course faster.
She stammered. ‘…The cliffs…well they’re not exactly climber friendly.’
‘Could Lawrence climb them?’
She looked up sharply. Why was he asking that? ‘Maybe…’ she hesitated. ‘…But not with a body in tow.’
‘Who says there would have been a body in tow? Our victim could have climbed down with his killer, and then been attacked on the beach.’
Loveday sat up. She didn’t like the way this conversation was going. ‘You’re not suggesting Lawrence had anything to do with this?’
‘Why did he chose the cliffs for that morning’s art class?’
She shrugged. ‘You’ll have to ask him that, Inspector.’
Until now Loveday hadn’t given much thought as to how the body might have got there. She’d been trying to avoid remembering that image on the beach. But now that they were having this conversation, she was sticking to her guns.
‘I still think your killer came in on the tide, which rules Lawrence out because I know for sure that he doesn’t know how to handle a boat.’
‘He might not have needed to be a great sailor…not if he knew that bit of coast really well.’
Loveday stood up, glaring down at him. She was annoyed now that he was still wearing the tweed jacket that had reminded her of her father. ‘Is this the only line of enquiry you’re pursuing?’
‘I think you know, Miss Ross,’ he replied lightly, also getting to his feet, ‘that I can’t discuss that.’
He was treating her like an intrusive journalist and Loveday felt herself bristle. Was he enjoying winding her up?
He was heading for door, his big frame making the small room feel even smaller. ‘I’ve appreciated our chat…and we will be considering everything you’ve said. And oh, just one more thing.’ He turned to face her. ‘Did you actually take any photographs today, Miss Ross?’
The question took Loveday by surprise. She’d forgotten about the pictures. An uneasy chill was beginning to sweep through her as she recalled that moment at the edge of the cliff when she lifted her camera and began clicking. Should she have mentioned this when she was questioned earlier? She looked up, holding his questioning stare, and nodded. ‘But I don’t think they’ll help much. They’re still in my camera. I haven’t even looked at them yet.’
He was watching her in a way that said what kind of journalist wouldn’t have checked out the pictures.
‘Perhaps I could see them?’
Loveday inclined her head. ‘The police headquarters is only a few minutes from my office in Truro, and I have to go in tomorrow. I’ll bring the camera along in the morning. You can download the pictures.’ There was no way she was handing over her camera. It had nothing to do with this investigation.
‘That will be fine,’ Sam said, turning to go.
She winced as he bumped his head on the low lintel over the front door, but she didn’t apologise for not warning him about it.
CHAPTER THREE
The raucous cries of the gulls on the roof of Loveday’s cottage woke her next morning, or maybe it had been the sun streaming in through the gap in the curtains. She got up and threw open the window. Out in the bay a solitary yacht, its white sails billowing, glided in front of the Mount.
The wild rabbits that lived beneath the hedge surrounding her garden were up and about, breakfasting on the thick grass below her window. The phone rang just as she was stepping out of the shower, and she cursed when she saw the caller’s name flashing.
Merrick Tremayne was the owner/publisher of Cornish Folk magazine, and Loveday’s immediate boss. Why hadn’t she called him? He’d have heard about yesterday’s drama by now and would now be panicking about those two blank pages that still had to be filled.
But she was wrong. Merrick’s voice was full of concern.
‘You should have rung me, Loveday I’ve been worried…well, we all have. What a terrible thing finding a body like that.’
‘Hang on, Merrick. How did you know about that?’
‘Sam Kitto rang me. Don’t even think about coming in this morning.’
‘Inspector Kitto? You know him?’ Her voice rose in surprise.
‘What? Well, yes of course I do,’ he said distractedly, a touch of irritation creeping into his voice. ‘Look, Loveday. I really do want you to take the day off. Delayed reaction can be serious.’
‘Thanks for the concern.’ So Merrick and the inspector were buddies? She wondered what else the policeman had told her boss about her…or the other way round, perhaps? She forced her mind back to her work. ‘We still have the problem of those two empty pages … remember?’
But Merrick waved her protests aside. ‘Don’t worry. Everything’s sorted. We’ll be digging into the picture files and we’re sure to come up with a good enough collection of photos to make a spread. I’ll go in today and write the copy and we’ll easily fill that space.’ He paused. ‘So you see, Loveday, in the nicest possible way, you’re just not needed in the office today.’
Merrick was a perfectionist, and although he seldom overruled her in the running of the magazine’s editorial, he was quick to step in if he felt something wasn’t right. She knew he wouldn’t be happy using this emergency stopgap material.
‘I am fine,’ she insisted. ‘And I appreciate your concern, but it’s my job to fill those pages, and I will.’
‘Er…excuse me young lady. I’m still the boss around here, and I’m telling you to leave this to me.’
Loveday sighed. From her window she could see the sun glinting on the water. She suddenly had an urge to be out running across the white sandy beach. ‘Well…if you’re sure - ’ she said hesitantly.
‘Perfectly sure,’ Merrick insisted. ‘You just relax today. That’s an order.’
‘Thanks, Merrick. I appreciate this,’ she laughed, and knew he was smiling too, as he rang off.
It suited Merrick Tremayne to let people think he took a back seat in the running of Cornish Folk, but none of them doubted he was the driving force behind the magazine’s popularity. His passion for it had been evident from the day Loveday first met him.
Delighted to have been selected as a candidate for the assistant editor’s post, she had turned up at the magazine’s Truro office for the interview in her best navy suit, climbed the stairs and was directed through the editorial floor to the editor’s room.
Merrick hadn’t been at all what she had imaged a magazine
editor should look like. He was approaching 50, his sandy hair, thinning a little, was ruffled and he had loosened his tweed tie and rolled up the sleeves of his dark shirt. No special effort to impress, then, she thought.
He rose a little from his desk as she came in, extending a hand in greeting and indicating that she should take the chair opposite.
‘Well Miss Ross,’ he said, settling himself across the desk from Loveday, ‘Why do you want to give up a well paid job on a high circulation daily newspaper in Glasgow to work for us?’
Straight to the point. She liked that.
‘Because I’m Cornish,’ she said, ‘At least my mother is. My father is Scottish.’
Merrick nodded across the desk at her. ‘Loveday Ross,’ he said slowly. ‘Well that explains the mix of the Cornish name and the Scottish one.’
‘It was going to be Demelza until my dad put his foot down.’ Loveday put on a face and mimicked her father’s Highland accent. ‘We’re not calling our lassie after after a television programme, no matter how popular that Poldark thing was.’
A slow smile spread across Merrick Tremayne’s face, instantly making him look ten years younger. He liked this young woman.
He leaned back in his swivel chair, placed his hands behind his head and said, ‘Ok Loveday. I’ll level with you.’ And he did. Over the next 15 minutes he related the history of the magazine from the time it was founded by his father, Edward Tremayne, almost 20 years earlier.
‘It started life as a monthly publication,’ he’d explained, ‘And it was doing well until the newspaper barons moved into Cornwall and launched two glossy lifestyle journals. Our circulation began to suffer, because although we had a loyal readership, the big boys had the cash and were prepared to throw it at their own magazines. My father couldn’t match that and our circulation suffered.’
‘That must have been difficult,’ Loveday sympathised, ‘It’s amazing you managed to keep the magazine going at all under that kind of pressure.’
